Dream Palette
NebulaDreams
Ace Trainer
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Hey, it's been ages. I'm no longer participating in the Pokemon fandom, and stuff has been busy. I've been working on my career, I got a new partner, and I'm still trying to figure out where my novel sits in the market. But that hasn't stopped me from working on more Dreamdiver fics from time to time since this idea has stuck with me despite everything. This one is a bit more of an episodic story, so it stands on its own as a one-shot. I haven't passed it through a beta (I wouldn't know where to look anymore for fanfic betas) so apologies if it's rough, but I feel like it's at the stage where I've done as much work on it as possible before I post the damn thing already.
I planned this for a while before I exited the fandom. As usual, I've been struggling with my own work, and there was a lot I wanted to get off my chest in terms of creative expression, what it means to be true to yourself, and not relying on external validation. So this is quite personal, but I hope it's just as entertaining as the other entries.
About Dreamdiver: Dreamdiver is a collection of episodic stories that each follow the adventures of Jung: a Hypno therapist who reads the dreams of distressed Pokemon in order to help treat them, each story following a different patient or problem. While this is an ongoing series, you don't need to read the previous stories to enjoy this one as they're self-contained, though it also enhances your reading experience if you have caught up with everything. The links to these stories are down below:
Frida watched the airborne delivery Pelipper with the eyes of a Fearow. The Pelipper, wearing a satchel, circled a ground-floor apartment which shone warm orange light out from the windows onto the darkened pavement. Two humans, a couple perhaps, laughed at a TV, sat on what looked like the cosiest couch ever.
There was a time when Frida and her teammates would do the same at night at the campsite tent, and they would watch one of her trainer’s dumb cop shows together while eating pizza. That seemed like forever ago now. Good riddance.
Any moment, that Pelipper would arrive on that doorstep with their food, and the couple would enjoy a dish cooked by some overworked sap that they would never even meet. But that wouldn’t happen, because Frida was going to steal their dinner.
Frida snuck from trash can to trash can, getting as close as she could without being noticed. She had done this plenty of times in Lumiose. That city was chock full of hideouts and escape routes. As bad as trash cans smelled, they were good blind spots.
Frida grabbed her tail, running her fingers along the brush’s fibres as she waited for the Pelipper to land. Cerulean blue paint oozed from the tip, ready for her to fling. The Pelipper swooped down and carefully placed the satchel on the welcome mat. Now was the time to strike!
Frida sprinted towards the entrance. The bag was in reach. The door opened, and voila! Frida snatched the satchel.
The Pelipper screeched, flying low towards her. It tried to trip her up by shooting jets of water at her feet. Weaksauce. She shot a paint bomb back at the Pelipper’s dumb face, blinding it. It stopped to wash itself. That bought enough time for her to hide and devour her meal.
Frida didn’t have to go very far. All she needed to do was hide herself from the Pelipper before it realised where she went. Next to these apartments, there was a play park for Pokemon and kids alike. Thankfully, no other stray had claimed it as their turf before. She climbed up the frame and hid in a tunnel that connected two of the platforms. Not the comfiest of places as she was cramped in pitch black darkness, but it was better than nothing.
Frida opened the bag, licking her lips, only to screw them shut. The contents of the food smooshed everywhere in the scuffle, leaving Frida with two deconstructed burgers. Those were all the talk in Lumiose in those upper class restaurants, so perhaps this was the closest Frida got to fine dining in a while.
She ate in silence, making a mess of her paws as she sifted through sauce-covered napkins to get to the beef part of the burger. And the beef itself tasted like cardboard. Whatever, it was nothing new — she was used to all the processed food that humans concocted. At least the fries made it unscathed, which she ate with delight.
Now Frida had a full stomach, it was time to return to her home turf. She crawled out of the tunnel with a smile on her grease-covered face.
Dozens of birds surrounded Frida. She stopped, still as stone. The Pelipper perched on a support pole and stared her down. She threw the bag right back at the Pelipper’s face, square in its paint-covered beak.
“There, you can have it back now!” she yelled, raising her fists. That only got the flying types more riled up. “You wanna piece of me? Well, come get it!”
She would take all those bird brains on. She had this.
—
Frida didn’t have it. She limped back to her turf, battered and bruised and sore all over. Those pecks were a real pain in her rear. But Frida was tough. She wouldn’t go to the Pokemon Centre like a wimp.
Past the winding alleys of Anistar, past the wraiths and strays and Trubbish, was her home base. It was a dead end trapped in a maze of apartment blocks. The concrete jungle allowed a slither of light in from the night sky, but the rest was blanketed in darkness.
Frida only had a dog bed and a couple of blankets to her name. There was a pile of child-sized jackets she had pilfered from various flea markets. And on the brick walls, there was a mess of colours and strokes from many failed attempts at painting. She had no energy to try again right now.
Frida cosied into a paint-stained hoodie. She would never admit it herself, but wearing it felt like a warm hug, especially after a gruelling day like this.
With nothing else to do and a buttload of pain to sleep off, Frida collapsed into bed. She was so tired. Tired of scavenging. Tired of being alone. Tired of everything. She fell into slumber like drifting along the ocean, where the deep, dark waters carried her mind away.
—
Frida awoke, dabbing at a painted section of a brick wall with her tail. This was… It was a whole scene of Anistar’s seaside. How did she manage to paint that? When did she paint it? Did she do it in her sleep again?
Never mind that, it was daylight. And she wasn’t alone. There was a very cross-looking human in a uniform, and a group of patrol officers, some human, some Pokemon, including a Blastoise that she knew all too well: Jet.
Frida’s hackles raised. Oh no, she’d been caught. And during daylight as well.
“Uh, Frida,” Jet said, “I thought we talked about not doing graffiti anymore.”
Crap.
—
“That Smeargle sleep-painted, you say?” Jung said, trying not to be too loud in the gallery.
“Yeah, paint me amazed too.” Jet snickered, holding a blubbery paw to his face. “Paint me? Get it? Because we’re at an art museum?”
Jung got it, but that didn’t make it funny. “And then what happened?”
“Well, I let Frida off with a slap on the wrist and she ran away. The shop owner she vandalised was really cheesed off as you’d guess, so she’s in a bit of trouble.” Jet shrugged. “It was a really nice painting, though, it was a shame I had to spray it all off.”
“I saw the picture on the news,” Jung said, fiddling with the rusty pendulum that hung by his neck, “and it looked incredible, especially without being conscious throughout the process.”
“It’s a big coincidence that we planned this get-together here before this all happened.” Jet tented his claws. “Not that this is usually my kinda thing, but I’m always up for something new.”
“Same. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a gallery like this myself.”
Jung stood up from the bench and walked along the gallery wall, Jet following behind him. Jung stared long and hard at one of the paintings before him. The work was simply titled Number Two by famed artist Fio Burgess, an abstract piece featuring an array of shapes, colours and line strokes spread across the canvas.
“I don’t get it,” Jet said, fiddling with his claws.
“What is there to get?” Jung asked.
“Is this a trick question?”
“No, not exactly. What do you think you see here?”
“A bunch of random stuff thrown together. Kinda looks like a Pikachu made it by tying paintbrushes to their feet.” He squinted at the plaque. “And who’d pay this much for squiggles?”
“Well, it’s not so much the painting as it is the legacy of the painter.” Jung rubbed his chin. “I’m a dilettante when it comes to the arts, but from what I do know, this artist had synesthesia. The painting, Number Two, is one of many pieces she made while listening to music, so she just drew what she sensed. And the strokes aren’t random.”
Jung traced his finger in the air along the brush strokes. “See how these lines are arranged? They’re equally spaced out. This wasn’t done by accident, she knew what effect she wanted to achieve by drawing those lines so far apart.”
“Okay.” Jet scratched his dome-like head. “Clearly, I’m not smart enough for this.”
“No, that’s not it.” Heat rose to Jung’s cheeks, Well, he felt bad now. “What I’m saying is that there’s context behind the painting, and that somehow added enough value to the piece that it became what it is today. I think she wanted us to draw our own conclusions about what the painting means, and how it makes us feel. Art isn’t meant to provide easy answers.”
“Well, I don’t care any more for it now than I did then, but how do you feel about it?”
Jung took a deep breath. “I see chaos. It’s beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. I see life, people, strangers in a crowd. They’re fighting, mingling, kissing, hugging. That’s what I personally get out of it.” He smiled. “But I can also just appreciate how pretty the colours are here.”
“I guess it doesn’t look bad, when you put it like that. I still don’t like it.”
“Fair enough, art attracts a variety of opinions.”
Jet nudged Jung’s elbow. “You could be on some talk show since you’re so cultured.”
“I’m not being too pretentious, am I?”
“Nah, nah. What you said makes sense. Ooh! Now this is more my speed.”
Jet eyed another exhibit on the other end of the gallery. This section was devoted to Sal, a Smeargle painter from Johto, and featured some of his prints on display in Anistar.
According to the plaque, Sal once toured there and drew random portraits of the people and Pokemon that passed him by. He employed an expressive style and a unique take on his subjects, particularly with the way he exaggerated faces and figures with a bold use of brushstrokes and textures.
Seeing another Pokemon’s work displayed in a gallery that people paid to see filled Jung with a certain sense of pride. All this from humble beginnings as a trainer’s Pokemon turned stray.
“I think Frida’s got potential to clean up her act, like that Sal guy,” Jet said. “You should see her graffiti.”
“I saw some of her paintings on social media before it was taken down and they looked quite good,” Jung said. “And I would be happy to help, but I try to look after Pokemon who urgently need attention. My schedule is full as it is.”
“I know you’re busy.” His dough-like face screwed up. “But I hate seein’ her so unhappy. I know she’s goin’ through something, but I can’t reach her. She won’t let me.”
Jung stared at his slippers. Jet knew how to tug at his heartstrings.
“Anythin’ would help,” Jet continued. “She gets along with me just fine, but she won’t go without a fight once it starts, so that’s the main thing. I just don’t want her to end up like those Meowths, ya know, the ones who went on that turf war.”
Jung shuddered. He knew full well what carnage had ensued there.
“Well, the clinic’s mindset is to take in Pokemon who are in a critical state.” Jung sighed. “But prevention is better than cure, especially when it comes to mental health. I’ll talk to her.”
“Thanks, Jung.” Jet ran his claws across Jung’s furry neck. He let out a low purr — Jet’s touch was to die for. “When do you think she can come to the clinic?”
“That won’t be necessary, I’ll visit her where she is. It’ll be pro bono.”
Jet blinked. “Pro what now?”
“Pro bono — for free, basically.”
“Oh no, you don’t need to do that, I don’t wanna pressure ya if the place won’t accept her.”
“Well, I’ll try to ask them, but if not, I’ll still see Frida regardless. I still have a day off each week.”
“That’s your only day off, Jung.”
“It’ll just be for an hour. I have plenty more during those days.”
“Alright.” Jet wrapped his arm around Jung’s shoulder. “Just don’t work yerself to death.”
Jung chuckled, exhaling into Jet’s side. “I’ll try not to.”
—
Frida stared at the impromptu canvas on her turf’s wall. She tried to remember what she’d painted before Jet caught her. It was a landscape painting of Anistar’s seaside. The waves glimmered in the sun. Wingull dotted the horizon. People walked along the seaside, rendered like she had trapped a bunch of real humans in a bunch of bricks. She didn’t even like painting landscapes, but it was better than nothing.
Frida washed the walls with white pigment, hoping to make a fresh start. But when she tried to paint like old times, the colours all looked wrong. The people looked like stick figures. The sea looked like sewer water. A blind kid could’ve crapped it out in their sleep. Except apparently, she did make something good in her sleep.
She splashed her tail all over the picture, scribbling out her disasterpiece. How did this happen? Where had all of her magic gone? It’d been like this ever since she’d moved to this dump. And even if she created something good by accident, nobody cared. Nobody would look at it or tell her it had potential. Except maybe Jet, but he couldn’t tell a sculpture from a trash can lying in a museum.
Her floppy ears perked at a faraway noise. She knew it was Jet from the rhythm of his footsteps, but there was another unfamiliar set of paws. Shoes, even. Her fur bristled. Did Jet finally sell out and plan to take her away? That snitch. Frida only had herself to blame for trusting him. Oh well. She stood on guard, gripping her tail, expecting the worst.
Jet appeared alongside a… Hypno. That lab coat. That set of Bunnelby slippers. Those glasses. It wasn’t a cop, it was something worse: a shrink. And they both had ice cream, which was almost finished, as well as a spare cone with a matcha flavoured scoop. Her favourite.
“Hi, Free,” Jet said, holding out her portion of ice cream.
Frida knew a bribe when she saw it, but regardless, she muttered a word of thanks and licked her scoop.
“I want you to meet Jung, a friend of mine.”
The Hypno bowed before her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frida.”
“What is this, a cocktail party?” She stuck her tongue out. “Who talks like that?”
Jung kept smiling. That didn’t affect him at all.
“So, what?” Frida tilted her head. “Is this some kind of intervention? You think I’m some sorta psycho?”
“Jung just wants to talk, is all.” Jet munched his chocolate scoop. “He’s coming here on his own day off.”
Frida hummed. How desperate was this shrink to see her that he wasn’t even getting paid for it?
“And I don’t have to do anything?” she asked.
“Nothing except having a little chat.” Jung stepped closer. “I’m only here to lend an ear — I won’t make you say or do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
His placid smile was plastered on his strawberry-covered face. Frida knew what Jung’s reputation was. What did she have to lose?
“Oh, screw it.” She threw a blanket at Jung. “Whatever, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you.” Jung sat on the ground, using the blanket as a cushion.
“Well, lemme know how it goes.” Jet turned around. “I’ve gotta patrol around town. See you around.”
Jet left Frida alone with Jung. She sat back in bed, nursing her ice cream.
“So, Frida,” Jung started, “are you familiar with me and what I do?”
“Word travels fast in town. Everyone knows about the therapy Hypno, from the humans in the market to the Trubbish in the dumps.” She wolfed down the rest of the scoop, gritting her teeth through the brain freeze. She liked the burn. “I know you’ve got a big sweet tooth, I know you waltz around in those stupid clothes, I know you hang out with Jet. Well, I know the most about you from Jet.”
Jung held his cheek. “He talks about me?”
“All the friggin’ time. But anyway, I know all about you.” Frida narrowed her eyes. “And just so you know, I don’t need fixing, Jung. I don’t need some shrink telling me how to live my life — you don’t need to get all deep and stuff, like you usually do.”
“Again, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” Jung wiped melted ice cream off his face. “And fixing is never the right word for what I do.”
“Seems like it.” She stood up and held her tail like the hem of a dress, doing a fake curtsy. “Oh, look, I’m the little poor stray who needs saving, because I’m such a loser for not having a trainer or being easy to get along with or whatever.”
“I’m not here to lecture you.” The corners of Jung’s lips tugged. “You might need help from me. You might not. I just want to get to know you.”
“No, you don’t.” Frida gripped her fist, scrunching the wafer up. “A shrink ain’t a friend. I don’t need more friends. And I don’t need a shrink to tell me what’s wrong with me.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I know what’s wrong with me.”
Frida expected Jung to make some sort of comment. To ask what was wrong with her. To press her, make her spill all the secrets of the past. Maybe he would ask her to tell him about her mother, though she never had one as far as she knew. He just sat where he was and looked at her.
“I saw your graffiti, by the way. It looked great.”
Frida scoffed. “Don’t patronise me.”
“Sorry, I know how that sounds. But I’ve seen your graffiti before on the news. There was that scene of Lumiose City. It looked so colourful, so… what’s the word? Impressionistic?”
This guy seemed to know more about art than he let on.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“So my instincts were correct. It was a shame they plastered over your paintings.”
She stared back at Jung. “The news talked about me, huh?”
Jung nodded.
Frida didn’t know how to react to that. She had spent so long trying to get recognised for her work, then trying to get over this art block she had found herself trapped in.
“Are people really talking about me?”
“Well, your work. Not many people know it’s from you since the paintings happen overnight, but it’s easy to put two and two together.”
Right. Frida was still a nobody. Nobody was clamouring for her, just her work, and those were landscapes, nothing but postcard pictures. She curled up in a ball on the bed.
“Frida?”
“I keep painting in my sleep. That’s why I was there that night.”
Jung hummed. “So I’ve heard. I’ve treated patients who sleepwalk or sleep-fight before.”
“But they can do that anyway. I can only paint in my sleep, though.” She gazed at the washed-out wall beside her. “Everything I try painting nowadays when I’m awake turns out like crap. And I don’t know why.”
“That is an interesting problem.”
“Right?” She threw the cushion across the hideout. “I feel like I want to explode, like I wanna draw the whole day away. I’m itching for anything to do other than survive the day, but I can’t.”
“What happened before?”
“You don’t need to know. And there’s nothing you can do to fix it, unless you travel back in time.” Frida sat up, facing Jung. “But I’ll do anything if you help me paint again. It’s the only thing in my life that has any sorta meaning.”
Jung tore the rusty pendulum off his neck.
“I’ll do whatever I can. Right now, I think it would be best to observe your dreams.”
Frida bared her fangs. “No, you’re not getting into my head like that.”
“You’re right to be sceptical, many people are wary of Hypno—”
“No, no, no, don’t start with that. I don’t care that you’re a Hypno. I’ve known plenty of Hypno who are nice guys. And I know humans are freaking idiots.”
Jung blinked. “That’s reassuring. But regardless, you don’t want me getting too analytical.”
“If that’s your nerdy term for it, then yeah.”
“Alright. I won’t press too far. But still, if I monitor your mind’s activity while you’re in the act, then that’ll give me a starting point on how to solve your sleep-painting problem. I could just ignore everything else that goes on in your dreams.” Jung outstretched his paw. “Does that sound like a good deal?”
Frida stared at his hand. She couldn’t believe she was bowing down to this shrink, but Jung actually listened and wasn’t just trying to fulfil some worthless quota or diagnose her. At last, she shook his paw.
“Deal. I guess you’re gonna do the hypnotism thingy or whatever.”
“If that’s alright with you.”
“Not really, but I’m desperate at this point. I guess this’ll be our little experiment.”
“I’d rather not call it that, but I suppose that’s true.” He held his pendulum out. “Close your eyes and relax. Count the Mareep. One. Two. Three.”
—
Jung watched Frida as she slept. What Frida said might’ve been true, about him being too eager to help. And he sensed how troubled she was, and how tough her life was. Unlike the Hypno in the dwelling he’d visited a while ago, Frida seemingly had no security. No wonder she was on edge. But he had to respect her wishes, just like any other client.
Haze emanated from Frida’s dreams. It had a peculiar scent similar to what a Smeargle’s paint gave off, like turpentine or orange peels. That signified neither a good nor a bad dream. But Jung couldn’t observe yet. He had to wait a little longer for Frida to get up.
Frida rose from her bed with glassy eyes and a gaping maw.
“Don’t wanna be here,” Frida muttered. “Not here. Not here. Not here. Beef stew for dinner sounds nice. Yum. Your drool’s all over my fur.”
Jung was unfazed. Sleepwalkers usually said nonsense in their sleep. Frida smeared her brushy tail all over the brick wall, making random strokes and blotches as the colours of her tail changed.
“I’m painting,” Frida growled. “I don’t care if there’s a battle, this is important. Let me have time for myself.”
Frida’s babbling took Jung out of his reverie. Right. He had to sit in on Frida’s dreams. Now was the time to use the hypnosis on himself. One. Two. Three.
—
Jung was an honorary guest at Frida’s gallery opening. There were many faceless patrons admiring her oeuvre. A moustachioed waiter walked by with a silver tray.
“Hors d’oeuvres?” he asked, lifting the cloche. There were many oddments on the tray: an apple core, a rotting takeout container, a morsel of blue cheese, and a single piece of wrapped candy.
“Ah, no, thank you—”
“It would be rude not to take one. You are not cultured enough to stay in this gallery if you do not sample the catering.”
“Alright.” Jung reached for the candy only for the waiter to swat his hand and put it in his pocket.
“I’m saving that for later — that’s my dinner.”
Jung scrutinised the tray before he ate the blue cheese. Even if he couldn’t taste in his dreams, he imagined it would taste like a locker room.
“That was… delicious!”
Satisfied, the waiter left Jung to his own devices. Jung weaved through the crowd, overhearing slithers of conversation about Frida’s art pieces.
“Ah, yes, this is a post-postmodern piece of modern art,” one guest commented.
“Actually, this is a satirical critique of the bourgeoisie conveyed in the purest form of abstraction imaginable,” another retorted. “It conveys the suffering of the working class as told by these aggressive brushstrokes, matched only by the perfectly formed lines that the upper crust represents. This is such a profound statement on privilege and status.”
“My Fennekin could’ve painted that with his teeth!” yet another critiqued.
Jung tried not to get too distracted by forming his own opinions and joining the debate. How could he critique those pieces if he couldn’t even see them? He continued searching, but the lights abruptly turned off. There was only darkness.
When the lights came back on, Frida stood on a marble podium, posed like a statue. Everyone circled her, each holding an egg. She outstretched her arms like a soaring Braviary.
“Imagine me as your canvas,” Frida said, “and imagine the egg as the medium to paint your frustrations away. Don’t be worried about hurting me — I must suffer for my art to work. Now throw!”
The audience peppered Frida with the eggs. Shells exploded all over her, blue yolk stuck to her fur, and the whites formed a black puddle at the floor. Jung realised he was holding an egg too. It had a pulse. He kept it in his coat pocket for safekeeping.
The scene changed again. They were in a life drawing class, where the students were all Smeargle, and the subject was a human who wore a blanket that covered her shame.
“Alright, class,” the human said, “we shall start with simple gesture exercises — I recommend you make quick brush strokes using the motions of your arms rather than your wrist.”
Jung didn’t know how to feel about this, as he got lost on his way to the malasada baking class, and almost considered jumping out of the window. The woman was about to undress when another woman clad in trainer gear burst through the doors. Frida stood up, throwing her hands in the air.
“Aw, c’mon, Rose,” she yelled, “we were just getting to the good stuff!”
“We have to practise. I told you the art stuff can wait.”
“You always say it can wait.” Frida tossed her sketchbook aside. Not wanting to lose the thread, Jung followed Frida to the next room.
Frida was nowhere to be seen. Thousands of chains hung from an invisible ceiling, rattling like a swarm of Chimecho, fixed to an alabaster statue. Jung couldn’t tell what it was at first glance as the many metallic threads blocked its visage, but it appeared to be a Smeargle, judging from the paws at the bottom half.
Faraway footsteps pattered. A door creaked open, though there was no wall. Jung ran through the opening and entered a maze where the room was covered with gigantic easels with pieces of linen draped over the canvases. Jung peeked under one of them — it was blank.
“Stop staring, it’s rude!” it said.
Jung scurried as far as he could from the talking canvas, embarrassed at making such a faux pas. He continued through the labyrinth, but found no trace of Frida. He searched, looked, scrutinised, appreciated, critiqued and admired until he hit a dead end.
The easels formed a circle around Frida, who no longer donned her leather jacket but instead wore a toga three sizes too big for her. She painted on the only uncovered canvas in the room.
Her art was beyond Jung’s comprehension. It showed every colour imaginable and possibly even more that hadn’t been discovered yet. It depicted a whole universe that swirled inside the painting, where the subject could immerse themselves in a world where volcanoes bled pigment and puffed rainbow smoke. What it all meant, Jung couldn’t say. But then again, what did most dreams mean?
Right, he was dreaming. He didn’t want to interrupt Frida’s work in progress, but what could he observe from this dream? What did this have to do with sleepwalking? Could he talk to Frida in this state?
He tapped her shoulder. She drew a green streak across the canvas, breaking the immersion of the image.
“Get lost!” Frida yelled. She turned away from the canvas and swatted him in the face with her tail, knocking him across a domino line of easels. Jung simply rose and dusted the rubble off his coat.
“Frida,” Jung said, “do you realise you’re dreaming?”
She glanced back at her tail.
“Did that hurt?” Frida asked.
“No, I don’t necessarily feel what happens in my dreams all the time. Now—” Jung straightened his collar—“I’m glad I caught you in the act. How did you feel when you created that painting? What sort of mindset were you in?”
“I dunno. I was asleep.” She shook her head. “This is so weird. Why’d I be asleep in a dream?”
“You can have dreams within dreams.”
“Okay, you’re the expert, I guess.” Frida pulled up another easel. “Wait, if I’m awake right now, does that mean I can paint in the dream?”
“Try it.”
Frida took a deep breath and brushed her tail across the canvas in a calculated manner. She frowned, making another mark, which took the shape of a head, but when she tried to draw a pair of eyes, they appeared asymmetrical.
“Ugh!” She tossed the canvas aside, snapping into pieces against the wall. “Dammit, why am I still doing this?!”
“How did you feel then?”
“I dunno! It’s like I wanna smash something with a hammer, but I don’t have paws to smash ‘em with! You know what I mean?”
Jung exhaled. “Very much so.”
Frida curled up in a ball, draping the hood over her face. Jung approached, holding out a sympathetic paw.
“Frida…”
“What’s the point of this anymore? Nothing I do matters anyway.”
The lights cut off. Something rattled far away, like the clattering of pots and pans. The room brightened up again. All the easels were gone, and there was nothing left except Frida. A sprawling web of chains shackled themselves to her wrists.
Jung remembered the statue in the other room, then looked at Frida.
“Frida.” He tried to pull the chains off, but they were sewn onto her skin.
“Just go away,” she croaked. “Leave me alone.”
Jung sat down, coursing his paw across Frida’s back — his hand phased through the chains.
“I know you don’t want me to get too analytical. But I have an opinion on this matter.”
“I don’t want to hear it. It won’t help.”
“I know. I don’t know what solution I can present at the moment. But I want to understand how you’re feeling — at the very least, I can relate to what you’re going through.”
“No, you can’t.” She retreated further inward. “Have you ever had to fend for yourself out in the streets? Have you ever had to toss your dreams away so you can eat? Do you even have a creative bone in your body?”
These were all sound points. The worst thing Jung could do was minimise them or make comparisons.
Piano notes trilled. It sounded like the Aeolian scale to him.
One of Frida’s chains vibrated. Jung followed the thread, riding it like the rail of a ski lift until he found the chain attached to the leg of a piano. Another chain sprawled from it and grew smaller and smaller until it was the size of a bird’s leg. A metal ring wrapped around a Fletchinder, who moved its body up and down the keys, playing that sombre scale.
His left hand hovered over the keys. Jung was hesitant to press down. He hadn’t played the piano in ages. Could he still remember how to do it? He pressed a finger down on the far left of the piano and played the same scale as the Fletchinder in a lower octave.
One by one, the ring broke into pieces, letting the Fletchinder fly free, then the chain around the piano shattered.
“Jung!” Frida shouted.
Jung sprinted across the obsidian floor, his own reflection staring back at him in the glass. It swung a pendulum, grinning like a demon. Jung clutched his necklace and pressed onward, telling himself not to look down again.
Frida stood, a white aura emanating from her. She stared at the twisted iron on the floor.
“You play the piano?” she asked.
“I did a long time ago.” He took a deep breath, his fingers twitching. “I got decent at it, but not as good as--” Jung cut himself off. “I don’t want to go there. I understand what it’s like, not wanting to talk, so I won’t press you further.”
“No, wait.” Frida held out her paw. “While you played the piano, did you ever get the feeling that no matter what you did, it would never be good enough? That you were better off not even trying because you’d embarrass yourself?”
“Sometimes.”
“Cause that’s how I feel, all the freaking time.” Frida tugged on her shackles. They still wouldn’t budge. Her arms dropped to her sides. “Say, if it’s a dream, can’t I do whatever the heck I want?”
“That’s how lucid dreaming works, yes.”
“Then can we take a walk?”
“Of course.”
Black cobblestones shot up from the floor, forming a new path that looped and spiralled upwards like a staircase. Jung followed Frida, taking experimental steps as each pebble had a different weight to it.
The room expanded and brightened into a narrow city alley. It was the spitting image of the seedy underbelly of Lumiose: stray cats picked out of trash cans, graffiti with phone numbers and gang signatures were sprayed on the brick walls, and a pair of Scrafty thrust broken wine bottles at one another, all captured in a freeze frame.
“You know they say Lumiose’s the city of art, right?” Frida dribbled a beer can across the road and kicked it at one Scrafty’s head. It bounced off then stopped in mid air, staying in suspended animation. “Wrong. That’s what they tell the tourists, but that’s not what it’s really about.”
“I can imagine.” Jung regarded a mural sprayed across a boarded up greengrocer’s — it had the visage of that famous smiling lady captured in the painting, but her face was stained with orange soup. “No city that glitters is pure gold.”
“Well, aren’t you a poet?” She spat on the floor. “But living there, with no name, no family, nothing, I had to do anything to make myself known. More than anything, I wanted to draw, wanted to express myself, wanted to live, not just survive, for something bigger than myself.”
A silhouette of a walking human materialised before them, dripping muddy paint on the ground.
“I tried to make money drawing people. But I was terrible, so nobody wanted it. Doesn’t matter whether you’re mon or human.” They walked past more sludge people, then pencil sketches of random Pokemon, scrawled across the streets like notepad doodles. “So I tried to get better. And I tried a lot of things. Landscapes, portraits, you name it. And it took years, and every day, I did it.”
“Sounds like you built up good habits, at least. Better than me, I’d say.” Jung played air piano, notes twinkling with each wiggle of his fingers. “I always got chewed out for not practising daily.”
“I felt so crappy on days I couldn’t do it, but if I didn’t get to draw, I always had a good reason.”
Frida stopped to eat a pizza crust that she’d picked off the floor.
“Then what?” Jung asked.
“I started getting good. I started drawing people for money. They didn’t pay much, but they liked it. And burgers beat trash any day. But…” She grit her teeth. “I hated it.”
Jung hummed. “That is often the case with turning your art into a profession. It just becomes another job.”
“I just got fed up of drawing people — they might as well’ve replaced me with a photocopier or some crap. I—”
“Hey!” A flat human rendered in a realistic pencil sketch stopped them on the road, offering them a pen. “Can you sign me, please?”
Frida sighed and drew an X over the drawing’s head — she pressed too hard and tore through the paper.
“Thanks!” The human walked off, their torn head flapping in the breeze.
“From what I understand, photo-realism was what the impressionists tried to stray away from, right?” Jung asked.
Frida shrugged as they crossed a road with cars being driven in slow motion. They walked past a homeless man with one ear sleeping on a bench. Jung put the egg in his empty coffee cup — Frida didn’t bat an eye at it.
“At some point I quit and tried to make the stuff I liked. Stuff that had weird faces, clashing colours, random strokes. I thought more about how to make people think just by using a few dots and a line.”
Frida stopped in the middle of another road, facing a car that slammed the brakes just a few centimetres from her face. It honked wildly, though she didn’t move.
“That was even worse. Nobody got it. Nobody checked it out. And the sense that nobody cared about my stuff enough to even look at it felt even worse than drawing those boring portraits.”
The chains reappeared, tying Frida to hundreds of cars. They floated in the air like bundles of Drifloon, yet Frida remained grounded, staring down at her feet.
“Nothing changed. It didn’t pay. I got sick of it, and things were getting worse in Lumiose with all the smugglers.”
Jung stopped. “Smugglers, you say?”
“Well, yeah, duh. It’s a big problem in Lumiose, that’s why you’ve gotta be tough if you’re a stray.”
“Right.” Of course, trafficking was going to be an issue in a bigger city like that. There went his dreams of eating croissants under Prism Tower. “Then what?”
Frida sighed. “I sold out and went with a trainer.”
“Rose?” Jung asked.
“Bingo bongo.”
Rose emerged from one of the floating cars and stood on its hood. She crossed her arms, giving Frida a stern look.
“You know the rest, probably.” Frida clicked her tongue. “I don’t really wanna go through that crappy part of my life. When I ended up in Anistar, I dreamt I could be free to draw what I wanted again. And now I’m here, not drawing at all, except in my dreams.”
Rose snapped her fingers. All of the cars came crashing down on Frida, concealing her in a tomb of twisted metal. Jung spelunked the impromptu cave, ducking beneath steering wheels, avoiding spinning tires, and covering his ears from the cacophony of horns that randomly honked.
He reached a dome in the centre, a vehicular igloo, and found Frida with her knees tucked to her chest. Jung sat beside her, waiting for her to talk.
“What?” she grumbled.
“Nothing,” Jung said. “I know you need a moment, so I’ll just be here for support.”
Frida mumbled and kept silent. Jung focused on the shifting landscapes around him. Dreams constantly changed, and the dome around them changed colour, from chrome to brown to mauve to pumpernickel.
“This is gonna sound really whiny,” Frida said at last.
“Go ahead.” Jung held her hand. “I’m here to listen.”
“Okay.” Frida took a deep breath. “All I wanna do is to make people notice me. To get what’s going through my head. To pick it apart and tell me what they thought of it. Talk about it with friends. With other Pokemon. I don’t even care if I make any money out of it, I just want people to see. Actually see, with their own two eyes. Is that so much to ask, to feel seen?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Exactly, but nobody sees me, or even thinks twice about what I do. They just wanna fight, or look at TV, or their phones, and never stop and sit with something that might challenge them. They’re all Mareep. Like Rose was.”
“Why did you join Rose?”
“I thought if I went with a trainer, I’d be set for life and have time to draw — what a joke that was.”
“But couldn’t Rose see that you were suffering?”
“She did. But the bottom line was her team. And whatever I drew, she didn’t get. She always said it was weird or a waste of time.”
Jung patted her shoulder. “I can imagine how soul crushing that would feel. It sounds to me like your trainer didn’t help matters.”
Frida chuckled. “That’s like saying water is wet.”
Water dripped down from the metallic icicles.
“Before you joined her,” Jung said, stepping away from the sudden stalactite, “when you started painting those experimental pieces, did you have fun at first?”
Frida tugged at her metallic collar. “Yeah. But nothing good came out of it — might as well’ve watched two Rattata fighting each other over cheese if I wanted fun.”
“But isn’t the whole point of a hobby to—“
“It wasn’t a hobby!” she yelled. The vehicular igloo creaked, like a heavy gate jarring open. “It was my life! All I ever did was draw! And nobody cares, so my life is just meaningless! I—”
A policewoman riding a Growlithe crashed through the metal wall.
“Stop right there!” the woman yelled, flashing her badge. “We’re the art police!”
“Oi, oi!” the Growlithe yelled with a Galarish accent, “you got a licence for that paintbrush, bruv?”
“Bruv?!” Frida sputtered. “I’m not your brother!”
“You what, mate?” The Growlithe snickered. “You can’t just paint without proving your stripes, that’s bang out of order, innit?”
“Indeed!” The policewoman flailed a pair of handcuffs like nunchucks. “We’re taking you downtown!”
She aimed a baton at Frida.
“Wait, wait, I yield! I’m sorry I suck so bad at art! Please—”
As soon as the bat hit Frida, she exploded into a puff of confetti along with Jung.
—
Jung awoke covered in paint. He pawed at his face — it was wet and sticky. His hand, once a buttery yellow, was now puke green. Frida stared at the wall, gripping her tail, which dripped with green pigment.
The mural on the wall was an exact replica of the nebula-like painting in the dream, complete with the messy brushstroke in the middle of the picture. Jung blinked, trying to process what had just happened.
Frida fell to her knees, sobbing.
“This isn’t gonna work, is it?” she croaked. “All I’m gonna be is a failure.”
“You’re not—“
“Shut up.”
Jung blinked. He wasn’t trying to butter her up, he knew that Frida suffered from a very difficult and complex case of impostor syndrome. There was probably a lot more to it beneath the surface, something Jung could examine if Frida was willing.
But Jung couldn’t help. Something like this took time to fix, especially with all of those chains in the dream — they could’ve meant so many different things. Was it worth telling her the truth, or would that make it worse, like it did with Tupelo? Or would he make it worse by sugercoating it?
No. Jung knew what it was like to feel like a fraud. That at any moment, someone could pull the curtain and out him for being just another bad Hypno, a hack in a lab coat, a grifter with glasses. There was no avoiding it, no matter what his boss did to reassure him.
Jung couldn’t fight it, but he could at least understand it.
“Frida. I’m sorry you went through all of that. I can’t even begin to grasp what something like this means to you, how much it must eat you up inside to feel unseen. And I know the tortured artist stereotype is harmful, but there is a lot of truth in it — it can take a lot out of you.”
“Yeah.”
Jung took a deep breath. “You’re right, Frida. I can’t fix this, not easily. From my experience, the feeling that you’re not good enough never goes away, not really.”
“Really?” Frida sniffled. “But look at you, you give up all your time just to help random schmucks that might never see you again. How can you beat yourself up over that?”
“I assure you, it happens to everyone. You can stall it. You can ignore it. But unless you address it head on, and are willing to do a lot of work to change it, then you can’t unlearn it. I can imagine it applies to art as well.”
“So I should just give up?”
“No.”
Frida squinted.
“No?”
Jung sat beside her. “Art is such a fickle thing, sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t, and you can go off it for so many different reasons. Remember when I told you I played the piano?”
Frida hummed a reply.
“Sometimes,” Jung continued, “I felt like there was no point to playing it at all, because I would get the tempo all wrong or hit the wrong key or what have you.” He smiled. “But I also enjoyed it a lot, even if I was still a beginner. I found it nice to just play what was in my head or play the songs I liked that I wanted to play for other people.”
“But you quit eventually, yeah? So it’s not like you practise what you preach.”
“No, but I can relate to you, at least. What I’m trying to say is that when I was having fun, that’s when I was the most productive.”
“Art isn’t about having fun.” Frida spat on the ground. “It’s about baring your soul and suffering to make your work the best it can be.”
“That’s a really easy way to burn yourself out.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Frida stood and paced back and forth, stamping her feet. “I know I’m stuck in a rut, that’s what I’m trying to get out of!! You’re giving advice, but you’re not actually listening to me!”
“Alright.” Jung sighed. “I see we’re at an impasse, then.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Jung stepped back. It was true, there wasn’t a lot of advice he could give that applied to Frida. He considered leaving it there and possibly coming back later, but once Frida stopped huffing and puffing, she glanced at her dream mural. She put her paw to her chin, scrutinising it.
Frida measured the piece with her paws, maw gaping at the exploding nebulae of colour unfolding before her.
“What do you think about this, Frida?”
She turned and shrugged.
“I don’t even know anymore. There’s never any way to tell whether I’m wrong or right with my art. What do you think?”
Jung stood beside Frida, examining the piece with the same precision as she did, measuring every line, counting every dot, and examining each fleck of paint. This was abstraction in its purest form. Yet, there was some sort of intent beneath it all. The green streak wasn’t a blemish on it, in fact, it added to the experience.
“I see a sea of stars with a comet trailing across it. But I also see intrusive thoughts, in the form of the green streak. It makes you think more about what’s going on in the frame and how the green clashes with the purples and reds. I think that streak actually completes the piece.”
“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?”
“True. But there was a great man who once said that there were no mistakes, but happy accidents.”
Frida shrugged. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” She chuckled. “You know, it’s the first time someone’s thought that deeply about my work.”
“I think it’s nice. I can actually see a bit of Fio Burgess in your art.”
“You know about her?” Frida’s eyes gleamed. “Oh my god, no way! I love her stuff!”
“This might’ve popped up as an influence in your dreams. Either way, I think you’ve made it all your own.”
Frida’s face fell.
“Did I say something wrong?” Jung asked.
“Nah, nah, it’s…” She turned away from the painting and clenched her fists. “I’m still at square one. What’s the point of painting it if I’m not there to enjoy it?”
“Ah, but you said art isn’t about having fun.”
Frida opened her mouth to speak, raising a finger. Her paw fell to her side.
“You’re doing it again, shrink, all that reverse psychology stuff.”
“I know,” Jung said. “You probably already know this, but the reason you’re able to paint in your dreams is because you’re not overthinking it.”
“I know that, in my head, at least.”
“It’s hard to internalise, I know. But all the life experiences you’ve had have made you second or third guess yourself whenever you try to consciously paint. Suffering has not caused you to make the art you want, it’s just caused more suffering.”
“Well, it’s not my fault, is it?”
“No, not at all.” Jung stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “I could talk about this for ages, and you are probably getting tired of treading water. I’m not here to diagnose you with anything, but if I may, I could give a professional recommendation.”
Frida rolled her eyes. “What, you want me to talk about my feelings some more?”
“No.” Jung rummaged through his wallet for a business card for his clinic. This was a shameless plug if he ever gave one. He wrote something on the back and handed it to her. “Once a week, every Friday, we do an art therapy session at my workplace.”
Frida’s ears perked up. “Go on.”
“I'm not responsible for running the sessions — there’s a Roserade called Lorelei who does it — but I’ve sat in on a couple of them. They provide art materials for you to draw out prompts. You aren’t judged based on your artistic merit, all it’s meant to do is give you an outlet.”
“What’s this got to do with getting better?”
“It’s something we call social prescribing. The Pokemon patients there find it really soothing, especially those who suffer badly from anxiety.”
“But I can’t go there, can I?”
“I can pull a couple of strings, so they’ll save a spot for you. Besides, I’m sure they’ll listen to Jet as well.”
Frida turned the card around in her paws. Jung fully expected her to toss it aside or crumple it, and she was entitled to do so. Instead, she tucked it into her bed with the rest of her belongings.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You go do that.” Jung looked at the piece once again. “Frida, you are a good artist. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. And even if you weren’t, I’d still encourage you to paint for its own sake. But if all you can do for now is sleep-paint, then that’s the method that works best for you for now. We all have our processes.”
Frida nodded. It wasn’t a convincing nod, but that was good enough for Jung.
“Are you done?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ll leave you to it.” Jung turned back, about to leave the alleyway.
“Thanks, by the way.” Frida said, stopping him in his tracks. “For what it’s worth, you aren’t a bad shrink.”
Jung smiled. “I do what I can.”
—
Frida rarely walked through Anistar during the daytime. She spent most of it in the shadows, especially since there was the risk of attracting the patrol force. Whenever she passed by a stray Pokemon, even in broad daylight, it squeaked and scampered off at her presence. That was partly why she liked collecting hoodies — she had an image to maintain.
But today was Friday, and she had an art class to go to. Art therapy, technically. It sounded like the most milquetoast thing imaginable. Frida fiddled with the card in her pocket. Would they let a stray like her in? Was it a trap for them to lock her in the loony bin?
She faced the clinic. It looked very clinical from the outside, though she could see through the windows that it was well attended, as a couple of shadows flitted behind the windows.
Her paws shook. It wasn’t too late to back away. But she had nothing better to do while she was still in this creative dry spell. Anything would’ve helped.
Frida stepped in. The indoors already provided refuge from the summer heat as it was air conditioned. There was a sweet scent of leppa berries in the air as well. Trainers waited with their Pokemon in the reception — some of the Pokemon played with those bead maze toys that always seemed to be in those treatment centres.
She padded over to the human at the reception desk, who was in the middle of a call. He discussed appointments and details, all stuff that she tuned out. She wasn’t the best at telling time, but the session must’ve started by now.
That human still jabbered on. This was getting old. Frida climbed up the desk, facing him at eye level.
“Er, can I put you on hold a sec? Thanks.” He pressed a button and smiled at Frida. “Er, hello? Have you lost your trainer?”
If she had a Pokedollar for every time someone asked her that, she would’ve owned a mansion. Frida pressed the card to his face.
“Oh, Jung invited you? Do you know where the room is?”
Frida shrugged.
“No worries.”
He looked down. Nestled in the human’s lap was a collared Poochyena. A girl, if the pink collar was of any indication. She tilted her head, taking the human’s neck scritches.
“Can you show her to the rec room?”
The Poochyena yipped and leapt to the floor.
“C’mon, this way!” she barked. Frida followed her through the main door, which led to a colourful corridor with loads of potted plants and scratching posts decorating the floor, and painted trees adorning the walls. It was a far cry from what Frida expected a Pokemon clinic to be — a white sterile space that sucked the personality out of anyone that entered.
The Poochyena led her to the art room, more like a kid’s classroom with beanbag chairs to sit on and framed prints of various artists serving as inspiration. True to Jung’s word, there were painting materials sprawled out on the floor, which various Pokemon of all shapes, sizes and types made a mess of.
The centrepiece was a huge paper sheet which the patients walked over with stained pawprints, creating different patterns. Other Pokemon who were able to use their hands drew on their own with crayons and finger paints. Even an Eevee, who looked like he had seen better days with all the scars around his body, drew with his mouth.
“Ah, you’re the Smeargle Jung told me about?” A Roserade, presumably Lorelei, greeted Frida, offering a bouquet.
“Um, yeah.”
“Great! Feel free to do whatever at the moment, we’re just having a play around for now. Grab a piece of paper and sit down!”
“Okay.”
Fearless Frida, taking orders from a living potted plant.
“Now, I want you to try and paint some flowers. It can be any flower, it could even be me.” Lorelei chuckled. “But try and make something that feels flowery.”
The others started drawing except for Frida. She wasn’t sure she could draw after being a sitting Ducklett for the first part of the class. There were so many opportunities for her to mess up. What if they hated her work? Would they all point and laugh at her? Would this further prove Frida’s failure?
She gazed at the Roserade’s hands. How could someone live with roses for fingers? Then again, what was it like to have such beautiful hands? Even to Frida’s cold, dead heart, there was something charming about flowers, the way they grew, the many different uses they had, how many variations they had. It was easy to see why so many still life paintings featured flowers.
Before she realised it, Frida’s paw started drawing wherever it pleased. She painted up to the rosebud. It had such a nice pattern with its spirals and petals. What if she filled the whole page with them? A painting of budding flowers, waiting to bloom.
Frida painted, alternating between the pigments from her tail and her paws. She hadn’t tried finger painting in ages. It was really useful for making a variety of marks that a brush couldn’t. Was it possible that she was actually having fun again?
A Chespin approached her, staring at her work.
“Woah, that’s really nice!” he said. “How’d you do that?”
Frida could’ve bounced off the walls in delight. For the first time in ages, she painted something while she was awake and didn’t hate it. Sure, it was only off the cuff. Frida wasn’t anywhere near the level of craftsmanship or confidence she was before she joined Rosa, and probably wouldn’t be for ages. But it was a start.
I planned this for a while before I exited the fandom. As usual, I've been struggling with my own work, and there was a lot I wanted to get off my chest in terms of creative expression, what it means to be true to yourself, and not relying on external validation. So this is quite personal, but I hope it's just as entertaining as the other entries.
About Dreamdiver: Dreamdiver is a collection of episodic stories that each follow the adventures of Jung: a Hypno therapist who reads the dreams of distressed Pokemon in order to help treat them, each story following a different patient or problem. While this is an ongoing series, you don't need to read the previous stories to enjoy this one as they're self-contained, though it also enhances your reading experience if you have caught up with everything. The links to these stories are down below:
- The Inalienable Dreamless
- The Dreamer is Still Asleep
- Teamwork Makes the Dream Work
- The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters
- A Pain in the Ash (April Fools chapter)
Dream Palette
Frida watched the airborne delivery Pelipper with the eyes of a Fearow. The Pelipper, wearing a satchel, circled a ground-floor apartment which shone warm orange light out from the windows onto the darkened pavement. Two humans, a couple perhaps, laughed at a TV, sat on what looked like the cosiest couch ever.
There was a time when Frida and her teammates would do the same at night at the campsite tent, and they would watch one of her trainer’s dumb cop shows together while eating pizza. That seemed like forever ago now. Good riddance.
Any moment, that Pelipper would arrive on that doorstep with their food, and the couple would enjoy a dish cooked by some overworked sap that they would never even meet. But that wouldn’t happen, because Frida was going to steal their dinner.
Frida snuck from trash can to trash can, getting as close as she could without being noticed. She had done this plenty of times in Lumiose. That city was chock full of hideouts and escape routes. As bad as trash cans smelled, they were good blind spots.
Frida grabbed her tail, running her fingers along the brush’s fibres as she waited for the Pelipper to land. Cerulean blue paint oozed from the tip, ready for her to fling. The Pelipper swooped down and carefully placed the satchel on the welcome mat. Now was the time to strike!
Frida sprinted towards the entrance. The bag was in reach. The door opened, and voila! Frida snatched the satchel.
The Pelipper screeched, flying low towards her. It tried to trip her up by shooting jets of water at her feet. Weaksauce. She shot a paint bomb back at the Pelipper’s dumb face, blinding it. It stopped to wash itself. That bought enough time for her to hide and devour her meal.
Frida didn’t have to go very far. All she needed to do was hide herself from the Pelipper before it realised where she went. Next to these apartments, there was a play park for Pokemon and kids alike. Thankfully, no other stray had claimed it as their turf before. She climbed up the frame and hid in a tunnel that connected two of the platforms. Not the comfiest of places as she was cramped in pitch black darkness, but it was better than nothing.
Frida opened the bag, licking her lips, only to screw them shut. The contents of the food smooshed everywhere in the scuffle, leaving Frida with two deconstructed burgers. Those were all the talk in Lumiose in those upper class restaurants, so perhaps this was the closest Frida got to fine dining in a while.
She ate in silence, making a mess of her paws as she sifted through sauce-covered napkins to get to the beef part of the burger. And the beef itself tasted like cardboard. Whatever, it was nothing new — she was used to all the processed food that humans concocted. At least the fries made it unscathed, which she ate with delight.
Now Frida had a full stomach, it was time to return to her home turf. She crawled out of the tunnel with a smile on her grease-covered face.
Dozens of birds surrounded Frida. She stopped, still as stone. The Pelipper perched on a support pole and stared her down. She threw the bag right back at the Pelipper’s face, square in its paint-covered beak.
“There, you can have it back now!” she yelled, raising her fists. That only got the flying types more riled up. “You wanna piece of me? Well, come get it!”
She would take all those bird brains on. She had this.
—
Frida didn’t have it. She limped back to her turf, battered and bruised and sore all over. Those pecks were a real pain in her rear. But Frida was tough. She wouldn’t go to the Pokemon Centre like a wimp.
Past the winding alleys of Anistar, past the wraiths and strays and Trubbish, was her home base. It was a dead end trapped in a maze of apartment blocks. The concrete jungle allowed a slither of light in from the night sky, but the rest was blanketed in darkness.
Frida only had a dog bed and a couple of blankets to her name. There was a pile of child-sized jackets she had pilfered from various flea markets. And on the brick walls, there was a mess of colours and strokes from many failed attempts at painting. She had no energy to try again right now.
Frida cosied into a paint-stained hoodie. She would never admit it herself, but wearing it felt like a warm hug, especially after a gruelling day like this.
With nothing else to do and a buttload of pain to sleep off, Frida collapsed into bed. She was so tired. Tired of scavenging. Tired of being alone. Tired of everything. She fell into slumber like drifting along the ocean, where the deep, dark waters carried her mind away.
—
Frida awoke, dabbing at a painted section of a brick wall with her tail. This was… It was a whole scene of Anistar’s seaside. How did she manage to paint that? When did she paint it? Did she do it in her sleep again?
Never mind that, it was daylight. And she wasn’t alone. There was a very cross-looking human in a uniform, and a group of patrol officers, some human, some Pokemon, including a Blastoise that she knew all too well: Jet.
Frida’s hackles raised. Oh no, she’d been caught. And during daylight as well.
“Uh, Frida,” Jet said, “I thought we talked about not doing graffiti anymore.”
Crap.
—
“That Smeargle sleep-painted, you say?” Jung said, trying not to be too loud in the gallery.
“Yeah, paint me amazed too.” Jet snickered, holding a blubbery paw to his face. “Paint me? Get it? Because we’re at an art museum?”
Jung got it, but that didn’t make it funny. “And then what happened?”
“Well, I let Frida off with a slap on the wrist and she ran away. The shop owner she vandalised was really cheesed off as you’d guess, so she’s in a bit of trouble.” Jet shrugged. “It was a really nice painting, though, it was a shame I had to spray it all off.”
“I saw the picture on the news,” Jung said, fiddling with the rusty pendulum that hung by his neck, “and it looked incredible, especially without being conscious throughout the process.”
“It’s a big coincidence that we planned this get-together here before this all happened.” Jet tented his claws. “Not that this is usually my kinda thing, but I’m always up for something new.”
“Same. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a gallery like this myself.”
Jung stood up from the bench and walked along the gallery wall, Jet following behind him. Jung stared long and hard at one of the paintings before him. The work was simply titled Number Two by famed artist Fio Burgess, an abstract piece featuring an array of shapes, colours and line strokes spread across the canvas.
“I don’t get it,” Jet said, fiddling with his claws.
“What is there to get?” Jung asked.
“Is this a trick question?”
“No, not exactly. What do you think you see here?”
“A bunch of random stuff thrown together. Kinda looks like a Pikachu made it by tying paintbrushes to their feet.” He squinted at the plaque. “And who’d pay this much for squiggles?”
“Well, it’s not so much the painting as it is the legacy of the painter.” Jung rubbed his chin. “I’m a dilettante when it comes to the arts, but from what I do know, this artist had synesthesia. The painting, Number Two, is one of many pieces she made while listening to music, so she just drew what she sensed. And the strokes aren’t random.”
Jung traced his finger in the air along the brush strokes. “See how these lines are arranged? They’re equally spaced out. This wasn’t done by accident, she knew what effect she wanted to achieve by drawing those lines so far apart.”
“Okay.” Jet scratched his dome-like head. “Clearly, I’m not smart enough for this.”
“No, that’s not it.” Heat rose to Jung’s cheeks, Well, he felt bad now. “What I’m saying is that there’s context behind the painting, and that somehow added enough value to the piece that it became what it is today. I think she wanted us to draw our own conclusions about what the painting means, and how it makes us feel. Art isn’t meant to provide easy answers.”
“Well, I don’t care any more for it now than I did then, but how do you feel about it?”
Jung took a deep breath. “I see chaos. It’s beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. I see life, people, strangers in a crowd. They’re fighting, mingling, kissing, hugging. That’s what I personally get out of it.” He smiled. “But I can also just appreciate how pretty the colours are here.”
“I guess it doesn’t look bad, when you put it like that. I still don’t like it.”
“Fair enough, art attracts a variety of opinions.”
Jet nudged Jung’s elbow. “You could be on some talk show since you’re so cultured.”
“I’m not being too pretentious, am I?”
“Nah, nah. What you said makes sense. Ooh! Now this is more my speed.”
Jet eyed another exhibit on the other end of the gallery. This section was devoted to Sal, a Smeargle painter from Johto, and featured some of his prints on display in Anistar.
According to the plaque, Sal once toured there and drew random portraits of the people and Pokemon that passed him by. He employed an expressive style and a unique take on his subjects, particularly with the way he exaggerated faces and figures with a bold use of brushstrokes and textures.
Seeing another Pokemon’s work displayed in a gallery that people paid to see filled Jung with a certain sense of pride. All this from humble beginnings as a trainer’s Pokemon turned stray.
“I think Frida’s got potential to clean up her act, like that Sal guy,” Jet said. “You should see her graffiti.”
“I saw some of her paintings on social media before it was taken down and they looked quite good,” Jung said. “And I would be happy to help, but I try to look after Pokemon who urgently need attention. My schedule is full as it is.”
“I know you’re busy.” His dough-like face screwed up. “But I hate seein’ her so unhappy. I know she’s goin’ through something, but I can’t reach her. She won’t let me.”
Jung stared at his slippers. Jet knew how to tug at his heartstrings.
“Anythin’ would help,” Jet continued. “She gets along with me just fine, but she won’t go without a fight once it starts, so that’s the main thing. I just don’t want her to end up like those Meowths, ya know, the ones who went on that turf war.”
Jung shuddered. He knew full well what carnage had ensued there.
“Well, the clinic’s mindset is to take in Pokemon who are in a critical state.” Jung sighed. “But prevention is better than cure, especially when it comes to mental health. I’ll talk to her.”
“Thanks, Jung.” Jet ran his claws across Jung’s furry neck. He let out a low purr — Jet’s touch was to die for. “When do you think she can come to the clinic?”
“That won’t be necessary, I’ll visit her where she is. It’ll be pro bono.”
Jet blinked. “Pro what now?”
“Pro bono — for free, basically.”
“Oh no, you don’t need to do that, I don’t wanna pressure ya if the place won’t accept her.”
“Well, I’ll try to ask them, but if not, I’ll still see Frida regardless. I still have a day off each week.”
“That’s your only day off, Jung.”
“It’ll just be for an hour. I have plenty more during those days.”
“Alright.” Jet wrapped his arm around Jung’s shoulder. “Just don’t work yerself to death.”
Jung chuckled, exhaling into Jet’s side. “I’ll try not to.”
—
Frida stared at the impromptu canvas on her turf’s wall. She tried to remember what she’d painted before Jet caught her. It was a landscape painting of Anistar’s seaside. The waves glimmered in the sun. Wingull dotted the horizon. People walked along the seaside, rendered like she had trapped a bunch of real humans in a bunch of bricks. She didn’t even like painting landscapes, but it was better than nothing.
Frida washed the walls with white pigment, hoping to make a fresh start. But when she tried to paint like old times, the colours all looked wrong. The people looked like stick figures. The sea looked like sewer water. A blind kid could’ve crapped it out in their sleep. Except apparently, she did make something good in her sleep.
She splashed her tail all over the picture, scribbling out her disasterpiece. How did this happen? Where had all of her magic gone? It’d been like this ever since she’d moved to this dump. And even if she created something good by accident, nobody cared. Nobody would look at it or tell her it had potential. Except maybe Jet, but he couldn’t tell a sculpture from a trash can lying in a museum.
Her floppy ears perked at a faraway noise. She knew it was Jet from the rhythm of his footsteps, but there was another unfamiliar set of paws. Shoes, even. Her fur bristled. Did Jet finally sell out and plan to take her away? That snitch. Frida only had herself to blame for trusting him. Oh well. She stood on guard, gripping her tail, expecting the worst.
Jet appeared alongside a… Hypno. That lab coat. That set of Bunnelby slippers. Those glasses. It wasn’t a cop, it was something worse: a shrink. And they both had ice cream, which was almost finished, as well as a spare cone with a matcha flavoured scoop. Her favourite.
“Hi, Free,” Jet said, holding out her portion of ice cream.
Frida knew a bribe when she saw it, but regardless, she muttered a word of thanks and licked her scoop.
“I want you to meet Jung, a friend of mine.”
The Hypno bowed before her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frida.”
“What is this, a cocktail party?” She stuck her tongue out. “Who talks like that?”
Jung kept smiling. That didn’t affect him at all.
“So, what?” Frida tilted her head. “Is this some kind of intervention? You think I’m some sorta psycho?”
“Jung just wants to talk, is all.” Jet munched his chocolate scoop. “He’s coming here on his own day off.”
Frida hummed. How desperate was this shrink to see her that he wasn’t even getting paid for it?
“And I don’t have to do anything?” she asked.
“Nothing except having a little chat.” Jung stepped closer. “I’m only here to lend an ear — I won’t make you say or do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
His placid smile was plastered on his strawberry-covered face. Frida knew what Jung’s reputation was. What did she have to lose?
“Oh, screw it.” She threw a blanket at Jung. “Whatever, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you.” Jung sat on the ground, using the blanket as a cushion.
“Well, lemme know how it goes.” Jet turned around. “I’ve gotta patrol around town. See you around.”
Jet left Frida alone with Jung. She sat back in bed, nursing her ice cream.
“So, Frida,” Jung started, “are you familiar with me and what I do?”
“Word travels fast in town. Everyone knows about the therapy Hypno, from the humans in the market to the Trubbish in the dumps.” She wolfed down the rest of the scoop, gritting her teeth through the brain freeze. She liked the burn. “I know you’ve got a big sweet tooth, I know you waltz around in those stupid clothes, I know you hang out with Jet. Well, I know the most about you from Jet.”
Jung held his cheek. “He talks about me?”
“All the friggin’ time. But anyway, I know all about you.” Frida narrowed her eyes. “And just so you know, I don’t need fixing, Jung. I don’t need some shrink telling me how to live my life — you don’t need to get all deep and stuff, like you usually do.”
“Again, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” Jung wiped melted ice cream off his face. “And fixing is never the right word for what I do.”
“Seems like it.” She stood up and held her tail like the hem of a dress, doing a fake curtsy. “Oh, look, I’m the little poor stray who needs saving, because I’m such a loser for not having a trainer or being easy to get along with or whatever.”
“I’m not here to lecture you.” The corners of Jung’s lips tugged. “You might need help from me. You might not. I just want to get to know you.”
“No, you don’t.” Frida gripped her fist, scrunching the wafer up. “A shrink ain’t a friend. I don’t need more friends. And I don’t need a shrink to tell me what’s wrong with me.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I know what’s wrong with me.”
Frida expected Jung to make some sort of comment. To ask what was wrong with her. To press her, make her spill all the secrets of the past. Maybe he would ask her to tell him about her mother, though she never had one as far as she knew. He just sat where he was and looked at her.
“I saw your graffiti, by the way. It looked great.”
Frida scoffed. “Don’t patronise me.”
“Sorry, I know how that sounds. But I’ve seen your graffiti before on the news. There was that scene of Lumiose City. It looked so colourful, so… what’s the word? Impressionistic?”
This guy seemed to know more about art than he let on.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“So my instincts were correct. It was a shame they plastered over your paintings.”
She stared back at Jung. “The news talked about me, huh?”
Jung nodded.
Frida didn’t know how to react to that. She had spent so long trying to get recognised for her work, then trying to get over this art block she had found herself trapped in.
“Are people really talking about me?”
“Well, your work. Not many people know it’s from you since the paintings happen overnight, but it’s easy to put two and two together.”
Right. Frida was still a nobody. Nobody was clamouring for her, just her work, and those were landscapes, nothing but postcard pictures. She curled up in a ball on the bed.
“Frida?”
“I keep painting in my sleep. That’s why I was there that night.”
Jung hummed. “So I’ve heard. I’ve treated patients who sleepwalk or sleep-fight before.”
“But they can do that anyway. I can only paint in my sleep, though.” She gazed at the washed-out wall beside her. “Everything I try painting nowadays when I’m awake turns out like crap. And I don’t know why.”
“That is an interesting problem.”
“Right?” She threw the cushion across the hideout. “I feel like I want to explode, like I wanna draw the whole day away. I’m itching for anything to do other than survive the day, but I can’t.”
“What happened before?”
“You don’t need to know. And there’s nothing you can do to fix it, unless you travel back in time.” Frida sat up, facing Jung. “But I’ll do anything if you help me paint again. It’s the only thing in my life that has any sorta meaning.”
Jung tore the rusty pendulum off his neck.
“I’ll do whatever I can. Right now, I think it would be best to observe your dreams.”
Frida bared her fangs. “No, you’re not getting into my head like that.”
“You’re right to be sceptical, many people are wary of Hypno—”
“No, no, no, don’t start with that. I don’t care that you’re a Hypno. I’ve known plenty of Hypno who are nice guys. And I know humans are freaking idiots.”
Jung blinked. “That’s reassuring. But regardless, you don’t want me getting too analytical.”
“If that’s your nerdy term for it, then yeah.”
“Alright. I won’t press too far. But still, if I monitor your mind’s activity while you’re in the act, then that’ll give me a starting point on how to solve your sleep-painting problem. I could just ignore everything else that goes on in your dreams.” Jung outstretched his paw. “Does that sound like a good deal?”
Frida stared at his hand. She couldn’t believe she was bowing down to this shrink, but Jung actually listened and wasn’t just trying to fulfil some worthless quota or diagnose her. At last, she shook his paw.
“Deal. I guess you’re gonna do the hypnotism thingy or whatever.”
“If that’s alright with you.”
“Not really, but I’m desperate at this point. I guess this’ll be our little experiment.”
“I’d rather not call it that, but I suppose that’s true.” He held his pendulum out. “Close your eyes and relax. Count the Mareep. One. Two. Three.”
—
Jung watched Frida as she slept. What Frida said might’ve been true, about him being too eager to help. And he sensed how troubled she was, and how tough her life was. Unlike the Hypno in the dwelling he’d visited a while ago, Frida seemingly had no security. No wonder she was on edge. But he had to respect her wishes, just like any other client.
Haze emanated from Frida’s dreams. It had a peculiar scent similar to what a Smeargle’s paint gave off, like turpentine or orange peels. That signified neither a good nor a bad dream. But Jung couldn’t observe yet. He had to wait a little longer for Frida to get up.
Frida rose from her bed with glassy eyes and a gaping maw.
“Don’t wanna be here,” Frida muttered. “Not here. Not here. Not here. Beef stew for dinner sounds nice. Yum. Your drool’s all over my fur.”
Jung was unfazed. Sleepwalkers usually said nonsense in their sleep. Frida smeared her brushy tail all over the brick wall, making random strokes and blotches as the colours of her tail changed.
“I’m painting,” Frida growled. “I don’t care if there’s a battle, this is important. Let me have time for myself.”
Frida’s babbling took Jung out of his reverie. Right. He had to sit in on Frida’s dreams. Now was the time to use the hypnosis on himself. One. Two. Three.
—
Jung was an honorary guest at Frida’s gallery opening. There were many faceless patrons admiring her oeuvre. A moustachioed waiter walked by with a silver tray.
“Hors d’oeuvres?” he asked, lifting the cloche. There were many oddments on the tray: an apple core, a rotting takeout container, a morsel of blue cheese, and a single piece of wrapped candy.
“Ah, no, thank you—”
“It would be rude not to take one. You are not cultured enough to stay in this gallery if you do not sample the catering.”
“Alright.” Jung reached for the candy only for the waiter to swat his hand and put it in his pocket.
“I’m saving that for later — that’s my dinner.”
Jung scrutinised the tray before he ate the blue cheese. Even if he couldn’t taste in his dreams, he imagined it would taste like a locker room.
“That was… delicious!”
Satisfied, the waiter left Jung to his own devices. Jung weaved through the crowd, overhearing slithers of conversation about Frida’s art pieces.
“Ah, yes, this is a post-postmodern piece of modern art,” one guest commented.
“Actually, this is a satirical critique of the bourgeoisie conveyed in the purest form of abstraction imaginable,” another retorted. “It conveys the suffering of the working class as told by these aggressive brushstrokes, matched only by the perfectly formed lines that the upper crust represents. This is such a profound statement on privilege and status.”
“My Fennekin could’ve painted that with his teeth!” yet another critiqued.
Jung tried not to get too distracted by forming his own opinions and joining the debate. How could he critique those pieces if he couldn’t even see them? He continued searching, but the lights abruptly turned off. There was only darkness.
When the lights came back on, Frida stood on a marble podium, posed like a statue. Everyone circled her, each holding an egg. She outstretched her arms like a soaring Braviary.
“Imagine me as your canvas,” Frida said, “and imagine the egg as the medium to paint your frustrations away. Don’t be worried about hurting me — I must suffer for my art to work. Now throw!”
The audience peppered Frida with the eggs. Shells exploded all over her, blue yolk stuck to her fur, and the whites formed a black puddle at the floor. Jung realised he was holding an egg too. It had a pulse. He kept it in his coat pocket for safekeeping.
The scene changed again. They were in a life drawing class, where the students were all Smeargle, and the subject was a human who wore a blanket that covered her shame.
“Alright, class,” the human said, “we shall start with simple gesture exercises — I recommend you make quick brush strokes using the motions of your arms rather than your wrist.”
Jung didn’t know how to feel about this, as he got lost on his way to the malasada baking class, and almost considered jumping out of the window. The woman was about to undress when another woman clad in trainer gear burst through the doors. Frida stood up, throwing her hands in the air.
“Aw, c’mon, Rose,” she yelled, “we were just getting to the good stuff!”
“We have to practise. I told you the art stuff can wait.”
“You always say it can wait.” Frida tossed her sketchbook aside. Not wanting to lose the thread, Jung followed Frida to the next room.
Frida was nowhere to be seen. Thousands of chains hung from an invisible ceiling, rattling like a swarm of Chimecho, fixed to an alabaster statue. Jung couldn’t tell what it was at first glance as the many metallic threads blocked its visage, but it appeared to be a Smeargle, judging from the paws at the bottom half.
Faraway footsteps pattered. A door creaked open, though there was no wall. Jung ran through the opening and entered a maze where the room was covered with gigantic easels with pieces of linen draped over the canvases. Jung peeked under one of them — it was blank.
“Stop staring, it’s rude!” it said.
Jung scurried as far as he could from the talking canvas, embarrassed at making such a faux pas. He continued through the labyrinth, but found no trace of Frida. He searched, looked, scrutinised, appreciated, critiqued and admired until he hit a dead end.
The easels formed a circle around Frida, who no longer donned her leather jacket but instead wore a toga three sizes too big for her. She painted on the only uncovered canvas in the room.
Her art was beyond Jung’s comprehension. It showed every colour imaginable and possibly even more that hadn’t been discovered yet. It depicted a whole universe that swirled inside the painting, where the subject could immerse themselves in a world where volcanoes bled pigment and puffed rainbow smoke. What it all meant, Jung couldn’t say. But then again, what did most dreams mean?
Right, he was dreaming. He didn’t want to interrupt Frida’s work in progress, but what could he observe from this dream? What did this have to do with sleepwalking? Could he talk to Frida in this state?
He tapped her shoulder. She drew a green streak across the canvas, breaking the immersion of the image.
“Get lost!” Frida yelled. She turned away from the canvas and swatted him in the face with her tail, knocking him across a domino line of easels. Jung simply rose and dusted the rubble off his coat.
“Frida,” Jung said, “do you realise you’re dreaming?”
She glanced back at her tail.
“Did that hurt?” Frida asked.
“No, I don’t necessarily feel what happens in my dreams all the time. Now—” Jung straightened his collar—“I’m glad I caught you in the act. How did you feel when you created that painting? What sort of mindset were you in?”
“I dunno. I was asleep.” She shook her head. “This is so weird. Why’d I be asleep in a dream?”
“You can have dreams within dreams.”
“Okay, you’re the expert, I guess.” Frida pulled up another easel. “Wait, if I’m awake right now, does that mean I can paint in the dream?”
“Try it.”
Frida took a deep breath and brushed her tail across the canvas in a calculated manner. She frowned, making another mark, which took the shape of a head, but when she tried to draw a pair of eyes, they appeared asymmetrical.
“Ugh!” She tossed the canvas aside, snapping into pieces against the wall. “Dammit, why am I still doing this?!”
“How did you feel then?”
“I dunno! It’s like I wanna smash something with a hammer, but I don’t have paws to smash ‘em with! You know what I mean?”
Jung exhaled. “Very much so.”
Frida curled up in a ball, draping the hood over her face. Jung approached, holding out a sympathetic paw.
“Frida…”
“What’s the point of this anymore? Nothing I do matters anyway.”
The lights cut off. Something rattled far away, like the clattering of pots and pans. The room brightened up again. All the easels were gone, and there was nothing left except Frida. A sprawling web of chains shackled themselves to her wrists.
Jung remembered the statue in the other room, then looked at Frida.
“Frida.” He tried to pull the chains off, but they were sewn onto her skin.
“Just go away,” she croaked. “Leave me alone.”
Jung sat down, coursing his paw across Frida’s back — his hand phased through the chains.
“I know you don’t want me to get too analytical. But I have an opinion on this matter.”
“I don’t want to hear it. It won’t help.”
“I know. I don’t know what solution I can present at the moment. But I want to understand how you’re feeling — at the very least, I can relate to what you’re going through.”
“No, you can’t.” She retreated further inward. “Have you ever had to fend for yourself out in the streets? Have you ever had to toss your dreams away so you can eat? Do you even have a creative bone in your body?”
These were all sound points. The worst thing Jung could do was minimise them or make comparisons.
Piano notes trilled. It sounded like the Aeolian scale to him.
One of Frida’s chains vibrated. Jung followed the thread, riding it like the rail of a ski lift until he found the chain attached to the leg of a piano. Another chain sprawled from it and grew smaller and smaller until it was the size of a bird’s leg. A metal ring wrapped around a Fletchinder, who moved its body up and down the keys, playing that sombre scale.
His left hand hovered over the keys. Jung was hesitant to press down. He hadn’t played the piano in ages. Could he still remember how to do it? He pressed a finger down on the far left of the piano and played the same scale as the Fletchinder in a lower octave.
One by one, the ring broke into pieces, letting the Fletchinder fly free, then the chain around the piano shattered.
“Jung!” Frida shouted.
Jung sprinted across the obsidian floor, his own reflection staring back at him in the glass. It swung a pendulum, grinning like a demon. Jung clutched his necklace and pressed onward, telling himself not to look down again.
Frida stood, a white aura emanating from her. She stared at the twisted iron on the floor.
“You play the piano?” she asked.
“I did a long time ago.” He took a deep breath, his fingers twitching. “I got decent at it, but not as good as--” Jung cut himself off. “I don’t want to go there. I understand what it’s like, not wanting to talk, so I won’t press you further.”
“No, wait.” Frida held out her paw. “While you played the piano, did you ever get the feeling that no matter what you did, it would never be good enough? That you were better off not even trying because you’d embarrass yourself?”
“Sometimes.”
“Cause that’s how I feel, all the freaking time.” Frida tugged on her shackles. They still wouldn’t budge. Her arms dropped to her sides. “Say, if it’s a dream, can’t I do whatever the heck I want?”
“That’s how lucid dreaming works, yes.”
“Then can we take a walk?”
“Of course.”
Black cobblestones shot up from the floor, forming a new path that looped and spiralled upwards like a staircase. Jung followed Frida, taking experimental steps as each pebble had a different weight to it.
The room expanded and brightened into a narrow city alley. It was the spitting image of the seedy underbelly of Lumiose: stray cats picked out of trash cans, graffiti with phone numbers and gang signatures were sprayed on the brick walls, and a pair of Scrafty thrust broken wine bottles at one another, all captured in a freeze frame.
“You know they say Lumiose’s the city of art, right?” Frida dribbled a beer can across the road and kicked it at one Scrafty’s head. It bounced off then stopped in mid air, staying in suspended animation. “Wrong. That’s what they tell the tourists, but that’s not what it’s really about.”
“I can imagine.” Jung regarded a mural sprayed across a boarded up greengrocer’s — it had the visage of that famous smiling lady captured in the painting, but her face was stained with orange soup. “No city that glitters is pure gold.”
“Well, aren’t you a poet?” She spat on the floor. “But living there, with no name, no family, nothing, I had to do anything to make myself known. More than anything, I wanted to draw, wanted to express myself, wanted to live, not just survive, for something bigger than myself.”
A silhouette of a walking human materialised before them, dripping muddy paint on the ground.
“I tried to make money drawing people. But I was terrible, so nobody wanted it. Doesn’t matter whether you’re mon or human.” They walked past more sludge people, then pencil sketches of random Pokemon, scrawled across the streets like notepad doodles. “So I tried to get better. And I tried a lot of things. Landscapes, portraits, you name it. And it took years, and every day, I did it.”
“Sounds like you built up good habits, at least. Better than me, I’d say.” Jung played air piano, notes twinkling with each wiggle of his fingers. “I always got chewed out for not practising daily.”
“I felt so crappy on days I couldn’t do it, but if I didn’t get to draw, I always had a good reason.”
Frida stopped to eat a pizza crust that she’d picked off the floor.
“Then what?” Jung asked.
“I started getting good. I started drawing people for money. They didn’t pay much, but they liked it. And burgers beat trash any day. But…” She grit her teeth. “I hated it.”
Jung hummed. “That is often the case with turning your art into a profession. It just becomes another job.”
“I just got fed up of drawing people — they might as well’ve replaced me with a photocopier or some crap. I—”
“Hey!” A flat human rendered in a realistic pencil sketch stopped them on the road, offering them a pen. “Can you sign me, please?”
Frida sighed and drew an X over the drawing’s head — she pressed too hard and tore through the paper.
“Thanks!” The human walked off, their torn head flapping in the breeze.
“From what I understand, photo-realism was what the impressionists tried to stray away from, right?” Jung asked.
Frida shrugged as they crossed a road with cars being driven in slow motion. They walked past a homeless man with one ear sleeping on a bench. Jung put the egg in his empty coffee cup — Frida didn’t bat an eye at it.
“At some point I quit and tried to make the stuff I liked. Stuff that had weird faces, clashing colours, random strokes. I thought more about how to make people think just by using a few dots and a line.”
Frida stopped in the middle of another road, facing a car that slammed the brakes just a few centimetres from her face. It honked wildly, though she didn’t move.
“That was even worse. Nobody got it. Nobody checked it out. And the sense that nobody cared about my stuff enough to even look at it felt even worse than drawing those boring portraits.”
The chains reappeared, tying Frida to hundreds of cars. They floated in the air like bundles of Drifloon, yet Frida remained grounded, staring down at her feet.
“Nothing changed. It didn’t pay. I got sick of it, and things were getting worse in Lumiose with all the smugglers.”
Jung stopped. “Smugglers, you say?”
“Well, yeah, duh. It’s a big problem in Lumiose, that’s why you’ve gotta be tough if you’re a stray.”
“Right.” Of course, trafficking was going to be an issue in a bigger city like that. There went his dreams of eating croissants under Prism Tower. “Then what?”
Frida sighed. “I sold out and went with a trainer.”
“Rose?” Jung asked.
“Bingo bongo.”
Rose emerged from one of the floating cars and stood on its hood. She crossed her arms, giving Frida a stern look.
“You know the rest, probably.” Frida clicked her tongue. “I don’t really wanna go through that crappy part of my life. When I ended up in Anistar, I dreamt I could be free to draw what I wanted again. And now I’m here, not drawing at all, except in my dreams.”
Rose snapped her fingers. All of the cars came crashing down on Frida, concealing her in a tomb of twisted metal. Jung spelunked the impromptu cave, ducking beneath steering wheels, avoiding spinning tires, and covering his ears from the cacophony of horns that randomly honked.
He reached a dome in the centre, a vehicular igloo, and found Frida with her knees tucked to her chest. Jung sat beside her, waiting for her to talk.
“What?” she grumbled.
“Nothing,” Jung said. “I know you need a moment, so I’ll just be here for support.”
Frida mumbled and kept silent. Jung focused on the shifting landscapes around him. Dreams constantly changed, and the dome around them changed colour, from chrome to brown to mauve to pumpernickel.
“This is gonna sound really whiny,” Frida said at last.
“Go ahead.” Jung held her hand. “I’m here to listen.”
“Okay.” Frida took a deep breath. “All I wanna do is to make people notice me. To get what’s going through my head. To pick it apart and tell me what they thought of it. Talk about it with friends. With other Pokemon. I don’t even care if I make any money out of it, I just want people to see. Actually see, with their own two eyes. Is that so much to ask, to feel seen?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Exactly, but nobody sees me, or even thinks twice about what I do. They just wanna fight, or look at TV, or their phones, and never stop and sit with something that might challenge them. They’re all Mareep. Like Rose was.”
“Why did you join Rose?”
“I thought if I went with a trainer, I’d be set for life and have time to draw — what a joke that was.”
“But couldn’t Rose see that you were suffering?”
“She did. But the bottom line was her team. And whatever I drew, she didn’t get. She always said it was weird or a waste of time.”
Jung patted her shoulder. “I can imagine how soul crushing that would feel. It sounds to me like your trainer didn’t help matters.”
Frida chuckled. “That’s like saying water is wet.”
Water dripped down from the metallic icicles.
“Before you joined her,” Jung said, stepping away from the sudden stalactite, “when you started painting those experimental pieces, did you have fun at first?”
Frida tugged at her metallic collar. “Yeah. But nothing good came out of it — might as well’ve watched two Rattata fighting each other over cheese if I wanted fun.”
“But isn’t the whole point of a hobby to—“
“It wasn’t a hobby!” she yelled. The vehicular igloo creaked, like a heavy gate jarring open. “It was my life! All I ever did was draw! And nobody cares, so my life is just meaningless! I—”
A policewoman riding a Growlithe crashed through the metal wall.
“Stop right there!” the woman yelled, flashing her badge. “We’re the art police!”
“Oi, oi!” the Growlithe yelled with a Galarish accent, “you got a licence for that paintbrush, bruv?”
“Bruv?!” Frida sputtered. “I’m not your brother!”
“You what, mate?” The Growlithe snickered. “You can’t just paint without proving your stripes, that’s bang out of order, innit?”
“Indeed!” The policewoman flailed a pair of handcuffs like nunchucks. “We’re taking you downtown!”
She aimed a baton at Frida.
“Wait, wait, I yield! I’m sorry I suck so bad at art! Please—”
As soon as the bat hit Frida, she exploded into a puff of confetti along with Jung.
—
Jung awoke covered in paint. He pawed at his face — it was wet and sticky. His hand, once a buttery yellow, was now puke green. Frida stared at the wall, gripping her tail, which dripped with green pigment.
The mural on the wall was an exact replica of the nebula-like painting in the dream, complete with the messy brushstroke in the middle of the picture. Jung blinked, trying to process what had just happened.
Frida fell to her knees, sobbing.
“This isn’t gonna work, is it?” she croaked. “All I’m gonna be is a failure.”
“You’re not—“
“Shut up.”
Jung blinked. He wasn’t trying to butter her up, he knew that Frida suffered from a very difficult and complex case of impostor syndrome. There was probably a lot more to it beneath the surface, something Jung could examine if Frida was willing.
But Jung couldn’t help. Something like this took time to fix, especially with all of those chains in the dream — they could’ve meant so many different things. Was it worth telling her the truth, or would that make it worse, like it did with Tupelo? Or would he make it worse by sugercoating it?
No. Jung knew what it was like to feel like a fraud. That at any moment, someone could pull the curtain and out him for being just another bad Hypno, a hack in a lab coat, a grifter with glasses. There was no avoiding it, no matter what his boss did to reassure him.
Jung couldn’t fight it, but he could at least understand it.
“Frida. I’m sorry you went through all of that. I can’t even begin to grasp what something like this means to you, how much it must eat you up inside to feel unseen. And I know the tortured artist stereotype is harmful, but there is a lot of truth in it — it can take a lot out of you.”
“Yeah.”
Jung took a deep breath. “You’re right, Frida. I can’t fix this, not easily. From my experience, the feeling that you’re not good enough never goes away, not really.”
“Really?” Frida sniffled. “But look at you, you give up all your time just to help random schmucks that might never see you again. How can you beat yourself up over that?”
“I assure you, it happens to everyone. You can stall it. You can ignore it. But unless you address it head on, and are willing to do a lot of work to change it, then you can’t unlearn it. I can imagine it applies to art as well.”
“So I should just give up?”
“No.”
Frida squinted.
“No?”
Jung sat beside her. “Art is such a fickle thing, sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t, and you can go off it for so many different reasons. Remember when I told you I played the piano?”
Frida hummed a reply.
“Sometimes,” Jung continued, “I felt like there was no point to playing it at all, because I would get the tempo all wrong or hit the wrong key or what have you.” He smiled. “But I also enjoyed it a lot, even if I was still a beginner. I found it nice to just play what was in my head or play the songs I liked that I wanted to play for other people.”
“But you quit eventually, yeah? So it’s not like you practise what you preach.”
“No, but I can relate to you, at least. What I’m trying to say is that when I was having fun, that’s when I was the most productive.”
“Art isn’t about having fun.” Frida spat on the ground. “It’s about baring your soul and suffering to make your work the best it can be.”
“That’s a really easy way to burn yourself out.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Frida stood and paced back and forth, stamping her feet. “I know I’m stuck in a rut, that’s what I’m trying to get out of!! You’re giving advice, but you’re not actually listening to me!”
“Alright.” Jung sighed. “I see we’re at an impasse, then.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Jung stepped back. It was true, there wasn’t a lot of advice he could give that applied to Frida. He considered leaving it there and possibly coming back later, but once Frida stopped huffing and puffing, she glanced at her dream mural. She put her paw to her chin, scrutinising it.
Frida measured the piece with her paws, maw gaping at the exploding nebulae of colour unfolding before her.
“What do you think about this, Frida?”
She turned and shrugged.
“I don’t even know anymore. There’s never any way to tell whether I’m wrong or right with my art. What do you think?”
Jung stood beside Frida, examining the piece with the same precision as she did, measuring every line, counting every dot, and examining each fleck of paint. This was abstraction in its purest form. Yet, there was some sort of intent beneath it all. The green streak wasn’t a blemish on it, in fact, it added to the experience.
“I see a sea of stars with a comet trailing across it. But I also see intrusive thoughts, in the form of the green streak. It makes you think more about what’s going on in the frame and how the green clashes with the purples and reds. I think that streak actually completes the piece.”
“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?”
“True. But there was a great man who once said that there were no mistakes, but happy accidents.”
Frida shrugged. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” She chuckled. “You know, it’s the first time someone’s thought that deeply about my work.”
“I think it’s nice. I can actually see a bit of Fio Burgess in your art.”
“You know about her?” Frida’s eyes gleamed. “Oh my god, no way! I love her stuff!”
“This might’ve popped up as an influence in your dreams. Either way, I think you’ve made it all your own.”
Frida’s face fell.
“Did I say something wrong?” Jung asked.
“Nah, nah, it’s…” She turned away from the painting and clenched her fists. “I’m still at square one. What’s the point of painting it if I’m not there to enjoy it?”
“Ah, but you said art isn’t about having fun.”
Frida opened her mouth to speak, raising a finger. Her paw fell to her side.
“You’re doing it again, shrink, all that reverse psychology stuff.”
“I know,” Jung said. “You probably already know this, but the reason you’re able to paint in your dreams is because you’re not overthinking it.”
“I know that, in my head, at least.”
“It’s hard to internalise, I know. But all the life experiences you’ve had have made you second or third guess yourself whenever you try to consciously paint. Suffering has not caused you to make the art you want, it’s just caused more suffering.”
“Well, it’s not my fault, is it?”
“No, not at all.” Jung stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “I could talk about this for ages, and you are probably getting tired of treading water. I’m not here to diagnose you with anything, but if I may, I could give a professional recommendation.”
Frida rolled her eyes. “What, you want me to talk about my feelings some more?”
“No.” Jung rummaged through his wallet for a business card for his clinic. This was a shameless plug if he ever gave one. He wrote something on the back and handed it to her. “Once a week, every Friday, we do an art therapy session at my workplace.”
Frida’s ears perked up. “Go on.”
“I'm not responsible for running the sessions — there’s a Roserade called Lorelei who does it — but I’ve sat in on a couple of them. They provide art materials for you to draw out prompts. You aren’t judged based on your artistic merit, all it’s meant to do is give you an outlet.”
“What’s this got to do with getting better?”
“It’s something we call social prescribing. The Pokemon patients there find it really soothing, especially those who suffer badly from anxiety.”
“But I can’t go there, can I?”
“I can pull a couple of strings, so they’ll save a spot for you. Besides, I’m sure they’ll listen to Jet as well.”
Frida turned the card around in her paws. Jung fully expected her to toss it aside or crumple it, and she was entitled to do so. Instead, she tucked it into her bed with the rest of her belongings.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You go do that.” Jung looked at the piece once again. “Frida, you are a good artist. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. And even if you weren’t, I’d still encourage you to paint for its own sake. But if all you can do for now is sleep-paint, then that’s the method that works best for you for now. We all have our processes.”
Frida nodded. It wasn’t a convincing nod, but that was good enough for Jung.
“Are you done?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ll leave you to it.” Jung turned back, about to leave the alleyway.
“Thanks, by the way.” Frida said, stopping him in his tracks. “For what it’s worth, you aren’t a bad shrink.”
Jung smiled. “I do what I can.”
—
Frida rarely walked through Anistar during the daytime. She spent most of it in the shadows, especially since there was the risk of attracting the patrol force. Whenever she passed by a stray Pokemon, even in broad daylight, it squeaked and scampered off at her presence. That was partly why she liked collecting hoodies — she had an image to maintain.
But today was Friday, and she had an art class to go to. Art therapy, technically. It sounded like the most milquetoast thing imaginable. Frida fiddled with the card in her pocket. Would they let a stray like her in? Was it a trap for them to lock her in the loony bin?
She faced the clinic. It looked very clinical from the outside, though she could see through the windows that it was well attended, as a couple of shadows flitted behind the windows.
Her paws shook. It wasn’t too late to back away. But she had nothing better to do while she was still in this creative dry spell. Anything would’ve helped.
Frida stepped in. The indoors already provided refuge from the summer heat as it was air conditioned. There was a sweet scent of leppa berries in the air as well. Trainers waited with their Pokemon in the reception — some of the Pokemon played with those bead maze toys that always seemed to be in those treatment centres.
She padded over to the human at the reception desk, who was in the middle of a call. He discussed appointments and details, all stuff that she tuned out. She wasn’t the best at telling time, but the session must’ve started by now.
That human still jabbered on. This was getting old. Frida climbed up the desk, facing him at eye level.
“Er, can I put you on hold a sec? Thanks.” He pressed a button and smiled at Frida. “Er, hello? Have you lost your trainer?”
If she had a Pokedollar for every time someone asked her that, she would’ve owned a mansion. Frida pressed the card to his face.
“Oh, Jung invited you? Do you know where the room is?”
Frida shrugged.
“No worries.”
He looked down. Nestled in the human’s lap was a collared Poochyena. A girl, if the pink collar was of any indication. She tilted her head, taking the human’s neck scritches.
“Can you show her to the rec room?”
The Poochyena yipped and leapt to the floor.
“C’mon, this way!” she barked. Frida followed her through the main door, which led to a colourful corridor with loads of potted plants and scratching posts decorating the floor, and painted trees adorning the walls. It was a far cry from what Frida expected a Pokemon clinic to be — a white sterile space that sucked the personality out of anyone that entered.
The Poochyena led her to the art room, more like a kid’s classroom with beanbag chairs to sit on and framed prints of various artists serving as inspiration. True to Jung’s word, there were painting materials sprawled out on the floor, which various Pokemon of all shapes, sizes and types made a mess of.
The centrepiece was a huge paper sheet which the patients walked over with stained pawprints, creating different patterns. Other Pokemon who were able to use their hands drew on their own with crayons and finger paints. Even an Eevee, who looked like he had seen better days with all the scars around his body, drew with his mouth.
“Ah, you’re the Smeargle Jung told me about?” A Roserade, presumably Lorelei, greeted Frida, offering a bouquet.
“Um, yeah.”
“Great! Feel free to do whatever at the moment, we’re just having a play around for now. Grab a piece of paper and sit down!”
“Okay.”
Fearless Frida, taking orders from a living potted plant.
“Now, I want you to try and paint some flowers. It can be any flower, it could even be me.” Lorelei chuckled. “But try and make something that feels flowery.”
The others started drawing except for Frida. She wasn’t sure she could draw after being a sitting Ducklett for the first part of the class. There were so many opportunities for her to mess up. What if they hated her work? Would they all point and laugh at her? Would this further prove Frida’s failure?
She gazed at the Roserade’s hands. How could someone live with roses for fingers? Then again, what was it like to have such beautiful hands? Even to Frida’s cold, dead heart, there was something charming about flowers, the way they grew, the many different uses they had, how many variations they had. It was easy to see why so many still life paintings featured flowers.
Before she realised it, Frida’s paw started drawing wherever it pleased. She painted up to the rosebud. It had such a nice pattern with its spirals and petals. What if she filled the whole page with them? A painting of budding flowers, waiting to bloom.
Frida painted, alternating between the pigments from her tail and her paws. She hadn’t tried finger painting in ages. It was really useful for making a variety of marks that a brush couldn’t. Was it possible that she was actually having fun again?
A Chespin approached her, staring at her work.
“Woah, that’s really nice!” he said. “How’d you do that?”
Frida could’ve bounced off the walls in delight. For the first time in ages, she painted something while she was awake and didn’t hate it. Sure, it was only off the cuff. Frida wasn’t anywhere near the level of craftsmanship or confidence she was before she joined Rosa, and probably wouldn’t be for ages. But it was a start.
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