Brie looked at Miles worriedly, whom was curled up in the corner of the saferoom by the diesel cans, staring out at the rain; despite the appearance, she knew he wasn't peaceful in mind, knew that the blonde teenager was trying to find solace in how nature always goes on.
Miles stared at the rain that seemed to fall in sheets, the darkened sky seeming to drip fresh water; he was about to go and stick his head out to catch some when he remembered what had happened only ten minutes prior and he immediately shot backwards against the far wall, propelled by his legs; he didn't care when a can of gas fell on his head; he simply curled into himself, trying not to remember what happens every time he falls asleep.
The two siblings looked nothing alike, Miles being a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man whom had a serious overenthusiasm to the whole 'shoot zombies in the face' thing, remarking he's had years of practice with paper ones. At this Brianne rolled her eyes, the brunette was decidedly the cuter one by many, and she was typically calm; when she got mad her brother was certain Tanks hid behind trucks from her- the smart ones at least.
A blast of buckshot courtesy of a fuming 17-year-old is not a pleasant thing.
Ever.
A shared trait of the two was their inability to be serious when things got stressful, rather doing their best to crack jokes and break tension, such as movie quotes and references, and their similar vocabulary, both lending an un-nerving affinity to strong language which made both their sets of parents red in the face, furthering their bond despite primarily communicating via IM.
The two had very different fighting styles; Brie was constantly a close-quarters girl, the two's fighting styles seeming to belong to the other. There were many incidents where she wouldn't hesistate to dive tits-deep into a horde to kill them, often using her Benelli shotgun as a club, occasionally giving zombies vertigo and kicking them off of a high place; she despised Jockeys for their horny tendencies.
'Probie', or the more fitting nickname 'Ghost' had a far more clean fighting style; he was definitely strong, not a Marine's build but he knew where to put pressure to do serious damage, namely the base of the skull and sternum. He relied on an M14 with a McMillan stock and a jungle-magazine system, (known as 'Dual Mags' to Black Ops players) but when things got close he slung the rifle and drew his knife, often dancing from Infected to Infected, slipping the blade between ribs or vertebrae to puncture the heart or sever the spinal cord, before dancing off to another before the first one registered the injury.
Ten minutes of silence that was decidedly awkward, Miles walked over and plopped down behind Brie, or Marie, or Infinity, all exchangeable since she had two characters of the same names and bore a striking similarity in a few aspects of her, but distinctively different. The blonde whose classmates had dubbed him 'Probie' ("It's a term of endearment." They said) rested his chin on his sister's shoulder, arms around her waist comfortingly for both of them; they weren't always physically together, Miles having been in the Mojave and Brie being in Ohio when the shit hit the fan, communicating via webcams and IM's primarily before the anti-IT's known as zombies made a quick snack of the computer jockeys.
"…I know it happened, but don't dwell on it…" Brie said, leaning her head back onto the blonde's shoulder whom gave her an icy look out of the corner of his eye, his eyes paling to a faint snow-grey. "Why should I not? I nearly lost my arm, the fact that I am fucking TERRIFIED of Smokers doesn't help matters much, and did I mention I almost suffered a Final Destination death, dismemberment by elevator?" he hissed then caught himself, his face falling from annoyance to pure and uncut guilt as he realized how he snapped. "…I'm sorry." He said softly, burying his face in her shoulder, taking comfort in the distinctive smell of basil that she seemed to always have despite the blood and Boomer bile that accompanied their predicament.
Brie reached back, gently ruffling his hair and turning around, kneeling in front of him. "It's okay. You don't get mad when I snap at you. Let's face it, I'm a bitch at times."
"We all are." Miles said bluntly.
"Yeah… well, I'm sorry."
"Why? You're you. You've been thru more shit than I have, you have a reason to get bitchy." Miles said, looking at her.
"So have you." She said, setting a hand on her brother's cheek.
"Well, not real shit…" the blonde said, looking at the space between them.
"How's it not real?"
"When I wake up I'm not tied down to a bed bleeding." He said shortly, standing. "C'mon, we've wasted too much time as it is." And he threw a can of diesel over his back, wincing when it landed on a severe bruise courtesy of a dismembered arm from a pipe bomb flying into his back.
Brie growled and pulled him back down. "Not until you feel better."
"Never stopped you." Miles said, though didn't move to get back up.
"I'm me, you're you! You always act like you're fine, you don't feel pain, you aren't tired and hungry and thirsty and sore and lonely!" she ranted, standing up. "I can't believe you refuse all this crap to yourself!" she kept going until Miles snarled.
"If I go without it, then it's more likely you will have it so you can make it out."
She froze up. "…You're saying you're willing to die here?"
He sighed. "If you survive and live a happy life I'm fine with it."
She twitched and kissed his forehead. "You're a fucking dumbass. It's sweet, but you're fucking dumbass. Who'll be there to cover me if you're bleeding to death because I had a wittle gash on my finger and you used the gauze to patch that up?"
"Good point." He grumbled and sat back down. "Future note, never argue with a woman."
"Damn right." Brie said, happy she won the argument; she watched as her brother made himself comfortable in a heap of blankets and gas cans, and instantly passed out from tiredness; she leaned down and kissed his forehead, smiling when the sleeping male hummed in content; she got comfortable to observe the watch, shotgun at the ready.
Behind her, Miles rolled over and curled tighter as images, sounds, sensations flashed thru his mind; burning rope- or was it a belt, or- ah fuck it, he didn't care. What he DID care about was the burning sensation in his lower body, trying to cry out when he felt something deep in tear open, desperately trying to get it to end, but only spurring whatever it was on further.
After fifteen minutes he woke with a cry, retreating to the most secluded spot he could in the home that was now a saferoom, curling up around his rifle, taking comfort in the cold steel; 68 rounds, he told himself. He had two pairs of full magazines, and a set that was one full and one missing two rounds; he mentally noted to make sure to obtain more; he drew his pistol, an oddity in the firearm world, a Five-seveN, a German handgun designed for tank crews against body armor; it worked well against human flesh as well, firing a 5.7x28mm cartridge. It did a good job dispatching armored Infected, though didn't have much knockback ability.
Brie heard the cry and sighed, standing and walking, going to the most secluded space she could find, a cubbyhole under the stairs where her brother was wrapped around his rifle and his handgun laid beside him; she knew this was an idiotic idea but said 'To Hell with smart things.'.
She clambered into the hole with him. Miles gave a start, instantly throwing his guns out of the hole and pulling her close, using his nose to dig for the scent of basil he knew and loved in her shoulder, sighing when he got the scent. Brie buried her nose in her brother's shoulder, smiling at the scent of pine and sand. "I love you." They said simulataneously, kissing each other's cheeks; Miles sighed and blinked tears away, rubbing his face.