Paint A Thing

Imagined 2024-19-10, transcribed by AI, cared by me

Chapter 1: Arrival at Darian

I found myself in Darian, a vibrant, bustling village where everything felt both peculiar and strangely familiar. The streets were alive with mismatched buildings, chatter, and a sense of order that didn’t quite make sense. As I walked, fragments of another place — the previous realm, the previous thing — flickered faintly in my mind. They weren’t clear, but they left me with a strange certainty: I had been here, or somewhere like it, before.

It wasn’t long before I noticed familiar faces in the crowd. At first, I thought they wouldn’t recognize me, but when I approached, they greeted me warmly. They seemed grateful, though I couldn’t fully recall why. One of them stepped forward, carrying something heavy. Without a word, they dumped a pile of washers, nuts, and bolts onto the ground before me.

Then another came, and another, until I was surrounded by a small mountain of scrap metal. I knelt, brushing my fingers over the pieces. Washers painted bright yellow stood out sharply, their surfaces smooth and deliberate. Green, rusted washers sat alongside plain metallic nuts, their value clearly less. It was only then that I realized: this was currency.

Chapter 2: The Weight of Gratitude

The heap of metal wasn’t just payment; it was a gesture of thanks. These people remembered something I had done in the previous realm. I couldn’t recall the specifics, but their gratitude was undeniable. The currency of this place — washers and bolts painted in different colors — had value based on their color and size. Yellow washers, spray-painted carefully, were the most valuable. The rusted green ones and plain nuts were worth less, but they carried meaning all the same.

As I began gathering the pieces into my hands, I muttered, “A bag would be useful right about now.”

A girl sitting nearby giggled. “There’s a pouch in the pile,” she said, pointing to it. Then, with a mischievous grin, she added, “But I can sell you one I made myself.”

She held up a rough, scuffed bag that looked handmade. I hesitated for a moment, then smiled and bought it from her. Even though the pouch from the pile would have been enough, I appreciated her effort. Using both, I carefully packed the washers and bolts, feeling the weight of their gratitude in my hands.

As I stood, someone said, “These are your rewards.” Their words settled over me like a revelation. These weren’t just pieces of metal. They were tokens of a story I had painted in another realm, one I could barely remember. It felt strange — as though these worlds weren’t meant to connect, yet they did, tied together by the threads of my actions.

Chapter 3: The Mansion Heist

I didn’t brain vomit this to my memos right away, so this section is an afterthought, therefore might not be true to the actual dream.

I soon realized that I had come here to do something, to carry out a task. Near the village was a mansion I needed to enter, though I didn’t yet know why — perhaps I’d figure it out later. When I arrived at the mansion, I encountered a familiar face, but they didn’t seem to recognize me. They were friendly and invited me inside. The evening passed as we talked, had a few drinks, and spent time in the living room on the couch.

I noticed there was also a cat in the house. Its fur was a bright orange, and it seemed to like me. While talking to what I assumed was the mansion’s owner, the cat sat close to me, very affectionate. As the evening wore on, while we chatted, the cat slowly transformed into a young woman, still as close to me as before, now napping beside me.

Suddenly, I remembered why I had come here. I was here to take something — something valuable. I was here to steal. The moment I realized this, the mansion’s owner began to feel hostile, and things escalated quickly. He suddenly knew. This led to a series of brutal events — dead people, blood. In the chaos, I lost sight of the… cat-slash-woman? who had stayed close to me all evening. I was in a hurry; I wanted to find her before I left.

I found her in a room that resembled a terrace, with glass walls and a breathtaking view of the nearby forest and beach. She was barely conscious, bleeding. The room was also occupied by other women, who were worried about her condition. They feared me, but I ignored them as I went to her side to check on her. She assured me she would be fine, saying her friends would take care of her. In my rush, I accepted her answer and left the mansion as quickly as possible, heading back to the village.

Chapter 4: Searching for Shelter

As night fell, I realized I needed a place to stay. A few familiar faces from the previous realm lingered nearby, their trust in me unwavering. Together, we began looking for a room that didn’t officially exist — somewhere hidden, where no one could find us.

Our search led us to a two-story bar on a street corner. Its owner, a wiry man with a sly grin, greeted us with a casual air. “Looking for a place to stay?” he asked. “We’ve got rooms upstairs. And if you’re interested, we’ve got drinks, food, and even weed.”

The offer was tempting, but something about the bar felt too exposed. We thanked him and moved on, eventually finding a community center where narrow hallways were lined with rentable beds. It wasn’t ideal, but the anonymity it offered was enough.

Chapter 5: Lingering Thoughts

After the chaos of the mansion, my thoughts kept returning to her — the orange cat, the red-haired woman. She hadn’t been in the previous realm, but her presence here was striking, tethered to my journey in a way I didn’t fully understand.

I scanned the faces in the village, hoping to catch a glimpse of her fiery hair, but she wasn’t there. It wasn’t just her absence that haunted me; it was the question of what I had left behind. Her bloodied, fragile state in the mansion felt unresolved. Yet, her words stayed with me: “I’ll be okay.”

Her absence left a hollow ache, a reminder of the fragility of these connections.

Chapter 6: Realization and Awakening

As the night deepened, the threads of these realms began to weave together. These weren’t just villages or worlds; they were canvases, places where you painted your own story. The people I had helped in the previous realm remembered me, even though my memories of them were faint and incomplete. The orange cat, the woman, the washers — all of it seemed interconnected.

I sat down, determined to piece together everything I had experienced. The gratitude of the villagers, the chaos of the mansion, the fleeting presence of the orange-haired woman. And then, as if the realization had always been there, the name of it all came to me: Paint A Thing.

The washers, the gratitude, the lingering memories — I gathered them all, determined to carry their meaning with me into waking reality. For the first time, I understood that this story, fragmented and surreal as it was, belonged to me.