It was if the fever had decided to claim more familiar faces to wrap him into a tighter weave. Genesis waved off the concerned moogle hovering close to his shoulder and raised his head in that haughty, righteous manner he knew looked good, even though he was that ridiculously cumbersome outfit the moogle insisted was the height of a Scholar's robe. He refused to let a mere delusion beat into him the ridiculousness of his past actions, he refused to allow the crawling guilt enter this picture. This was only a fver dream and he will not accept anything else.

For accepting this would mean that he was dead to the Planet and to the Goddess he was seeking.

"Sephiroth," he replied and stopped, not sure exactly what to say. He could make jabs at his mother again, but that would only be old news.