Stinging with a Purpose

Marise's hands stung as she silently walked down the street. No, stung was not the right word. Burned. They burned with a purpose she had not known she'd had an hour before. She had suspected it, something lingering in the shadows just beyond the periphery of her vision. This feeling though was a confirmation of all that she had suspected. There was a purpose for her art. And that felt good, this recognition.

The sleeve of her red jacket grazed the skin, lighting it afire. Every time something touched it, it renewed her sense of the larger picture. Her eyes had been opened and they now scanned the environment with a renewed interest she had long forgotten. Darkened alleyways were more alive with steam rising off the ground in droves. Hidden people revealed themselves to her now.

She had no place left to return to, so she threw herself into the darkness, becoming reborn in that murk and decay into something more. A figurehead. Her purpose would be revealed soon enough.
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As the underground released him from its grip, Pryor stood triumphantly in the dank air of the above. Not much had changed in the years since his last visit. He was not one to suffer the pains of a growing population. While the area had exploded in size, he could immediately tell that the place still was rife with moral decay. There had to be some way to awaken these poor slobs. To create something more in their petty lives.

And then she emerged from the darkness, making her way triumphantly straight into his arms. There she was. He had found his figurehead.