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Later he'll think he should have known better. It's always the days when things go too smoothly that you have to really watch out for.
They're fighting their way north, through the mountains, toward the heart of Wutai. The action's patchy, brutal firefights one day and then brutally boring marches for three. The other guys with SOLDIER mods are just as keyed up as Xigbar, just as impatient as he is when shit drags on with no action. They're here to fight, not to hike through miles of nothing while the fucking wutes watch them from up in the rocks somewhere.
They'll be bringing the good news tonight, at least. The scouts came back this morning with reports of a village, another day's march up the pass, and what HQ calls a "strong insurgent presence" there. The grunts ain't happy about it, but the SOLDIERs've been on quick-time march all afternoon. Soon as the sun goes down, the mako gives them an advantage, and three days of nothing have them all itching for a good fight.
Their gear creaks and clinks as they head up the trail in the fading light. Nobody's talking, now. They all know they're too close. The rifle feels familiar in Xigbar's hands, lighter than it did before he had his shots. He's still fresh, even though they've covered a lot of uphill ground this afternoon. Good old Doctor Hojo had at least one damn good idea, when he first suggested shooting the troops up with that stuff.
And then there they are, minding their own business the best you ever do in a goddamn war zone, and blam. The whole countryside around them seems to go up in flames all at once, and the ground shakes with the rumbling force of explosions. Shrapnel goes everywhere -- something white-hot and sharp rakes across Xigbar's face and he staggers, cursing. Marco, right in front of him, starts screaming, and whatever hit him burns, and everything slows down and goes too sharp, too vivid. His hands are too slick to get a decent grip on his gun, but fuck if he's going to give up here.
He can't see out of his right eye and that whole side of his face is soaking wet, but he can fucking worry about that when he's dead, which is going to be in about five minutes if he doesn't move.
"Medic!" he calls, getting his hands under Marco's shoulders and hauling him backward, toward cover. Marco feels way too light, like he's barely there at all, and he's still screaming. There are fires flaring up on either side of the pass, starting from the explosions and from the materia the SOLDIERs are activating now. They should have more fucking gear. They should have Cure equipped to everyone in the fucking unit.
But no, there's no goddamn time or money for that, so they're out here with only one or two guys in each squad equipped for healing, and the rest of them have to make do with their goddamn potion rations. Xigbar gropes in his pockets until he finds his, twisting the cap off with his teeth when his hands are still too slippery to manage. He tastes blood.
"Drink, you son of a bitch," he says, holding the potion to Marco's lips, and Marco chokes a little but gets it down, and that was his last one, Xigbar realizes when he reaches for another for himself. He calls for the medic again, but he's not about to get his hopes up. There are gunshots coming from everywhere now, the heavy crack of their guns and the higher snap of the wutes' light rounds.
Fuck it. Somebody will patch him up when it's over, and a half-blind SOLDIER should still be able to outfight some scrawny little slants, right?
So he props Marco up against a rock and says, "Wait here," and pretends not to notice that Marco doesn't respond, and tries not to look at the mess of shredded meat and bone that's all that's left of Marco's legs. He wipes his hands on his fatigues to get the worst of the blood off, and slings his gun around to ready. Fuck this war. Fuck this whole country. Xigbar's not going to let it take him down.