Genesis's touch is soft; his words are gentle, empathetic. But they fall on deaf ears, on numb skin. Sephiroth jerks violently away from him. "One who resembles me?!" He seizes the portrait and thrusts it towards Genesis. "Which of these people gave me my hair color, I wonder? Lucrecia is sitting - do you think she crowned two meters standing up? In fact -" he flings it back towards the table, where it scatters the silverware and dishes all around, crashing, the tinkling of broken glass - "was it her pupils that slit like a cat's? Hojo told me that was the mako exposure! The mako exposure! Except no one else in SOLDIER developed a tapetum lucidum, did they?!"

Ranting. Deranged. Is this what it is like, to be de-ranged? Un-hinged? Flapping like a poorly bolted door? That feeling is crawling in his veins again, prickling his skin, though rather than coming from all around him, it is calling him, pulling him. The reactor. The answers are at the reactor -

"The thing is at the reactor," he growls, and steps towards the window.