this is incredibly hot.
uhh where can i get one of these asap
Tumblr sur We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/87733064/via/klaime
Meet Estela, the Hand-Reared Baby Spider Monkey. Photo credits: All by Trent Brownings but last (by Melbourne Zoo staff)
Generally, DuBois was the kind of person to happily place its hands on another splicer’s body just to see what their attributes felt like. But it had learned a long time ago not to do that to the aesthetic splicers. The ones that just got a small splice, like cat eyes or a forked tongue. Those were the ones more likely to punch it in the face for touching them. The full splices, the ones who did it as a life style, were generally more willing to let themselves be man-handled.
"Fair enough," DuBois said with a shrug. "To be honest, I like those impulse splices more. The ones with all sorts of spiritual or personal baggage or whatever, those guys tend to be a bit too new-age for my tastes." Sure, its own splices meant a lot to DuBois, but it didn’t go around putting eagle feathers in its hair or talking about spirit animals like a lot of the ignorant white kids who got into splicing did.
"I know what you mean-" Amadeo scoffed, most people under a certain age annoyed the hell out him, let alone the ones who liked to mindlessly follow trends. But he would generally look at things from a more positive light.
"At least it’s funny to watch them fuck up," Like the naive children that they were… Amadeo suddenly felt uncomfortably old, and his toothy grin began to falter
"…Yeah, sure is," DuBois said, with a forced chuckle and small smile. It considered all of its own jobs horribly botched. Not as bad as some of the worst of the worst, but not at all what it was going for. Each time a splice failed, it went in for another to try and fix the damage, at least until Gotham passed their laws against splicing.
"Anyways. That’s a gorgeous job, whoever did it must have been pretty good," it said, trying to change the subject and failing. It could tell that the stranger’s spirits were slipping, as were its own. Amadeo wasn’t the only one who felt old.
Theodore Mattas Photos
DuBois sighed heavily, running its hands through its hair again. It was silent for a moment, thinking. Slowly, it squared its shoulders and turned back to the rest of the group.
"Alright," it said, in a tone that tried to carry authority, but wasn’t quite confident enough. "Lanterns back on, people. You four," it pointed to the four Dwellers who had been silently hanging back around the wheelbarrow, "head up to the surface. Chris knows where to go, you’ll be fine without me. If that shitheel at the scrap yard tries to give you anything under twenty creds, go ahead and get in his face, don’t let him rip you off."
It gestured to the androgynous teen and the large man who had approached Matt. “You two, you’re coming back to the shelters with me.”
The group hesitated for a moment, but then splintered off accordingly, those with the wheelbarrow squeezing past Matt and DuBois, and the other two turning their flashlights back on. They gave DuBois a curious look, and the splicer waved them on.
It turned then to Matt, speaking in a low voice. “Hey, I’m sorry about this.” It sounded worn out, but sincere. “I know you don’t want to be down here, and I’d rather not have you here, honestly. But I promise, I’m not going to let anyone do anything to you.” Not yet, at least. It would wait to see what Dak had to say.
"Don’t worry about it," Matt said with a shrug. He understood DuBois’ dilemma when it came to him. The splicer, who’s gender was a complete mystery to Matt, seemed to be leading this small troupe, and it was always hard to make decisions like this when taking care of people. The splicer couldn’t know whether or not Matt was a danger to it’s people.
He’d made similar decisions himself when he was in Kasnia, so he really couldn’t begrudge DuBois.
He did his best to seem unassuming and harmless, so as not to insight panic in anyone.
He was only thankful he hadn’t worn his uniform.
At least DuBois knew where Dak was. It hoped. It had woken up for seller duty to find him wrapped around itself. It would have liked to stay with him for the day, since he’d been gone for well over a week, but they needed to get the scrap up to the surface and get supplies. It just hoped he still there. He came and went as he pleased, which was fine, except for times like this.
DuBois nodded to the cop, then started walking, trying to keep him either next to it or in front of it. It didn’t want to lose track of the guy, and either be responsible for a cop getting lost in the tunnels, or having him turn out to be the killer and let him attack them.
The other two lead the way, occasionally stopping and inspecting graffiti spread over the walls. The graffiti was done in a variety of styles, by various artists, but anyone paying attention would see the repeating themes of a red skull. They followed the skulls until they came to a wider tunnel. They went down another path, again, being lead by graffiti, but this time, the repeating theme was a crown.
They stopped when they hit a huge door embedded in the wall. It was circular, and had a wheel on it, like a bank vault. DuBois tucked its flashlight into its belt and turned the wheel, grunting at the effort of trying to move the solid metal door. It opened up to a sight that Matt would have been familiar with - a large fallout shelter, filled with books and trinkets, but far more than the last time he’d been there.
There were three living things in the shelter, and they all looked up at the door as it was opened: two rats the size of medium dogs, and a scruffy, shirtless man who had been in the process of changing his shirt.