This... isn't real. These shared dreams are hard to tell from reality at first, and Sephiroth's been in so many warzones that it takes strange uniforms, weapons and vehicles for incongruencies to add up enough for him to come to the gradual conclusion that this, too, isn't actually happening.

It feels real. He can smell the smoke, taste the acrid stink of burning, the scent of blood sharp in the air. Yang might have been thought to simply be part of the dream, but she's out of place.

Doesn't quite belong, in the way the rest of this warzone fits together.

"He looks like you."

For all that none of this is right now, really happening, Sephiroth's voice is low. He's seen enough dead soldiers to last a lifetime, and it's almost habit now to treat it with a measure of respect no matter who the fallen is.

They all had friends. Family, loved ones. The locket made proof of that, much as his own had once. Who the man really was, he had no idea.