Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own FF7, it is the property of Square Enix.

A/N: Just playing around with the timeline and plot of FF7. In this case, I'm assuming that Vincent *ahem* did have an intimate relationship with Lucrecia, and Sephiroth is his son. In-fic, he's in his coffin brooding away, and I'm again making a huge assumption that he'd forgotten much of his past. He knows that he's done something wrong, but he can't remember much about it. After what he's gone through, a memory lapse wouldn't be totally out of place. Also, I'm sorry if this appears a bit Star Wars-ish. I kind of got this idea when I was talking to some of my friends earlier when we met up, they were saying that Sephiroth definitely can't be Vincent's son and that started me thinking, "Why not?"

He dreamt. It was a whirl of whites and blacks and greys, this world of in-betweens where sleep became dreams and dreams, death. No time, just the slow tread of memory until even the real world faded away.

It made no sense. Perhaps it wasn't meant to make sense. He wasn't sure anymore. Snippets of conversations and faces slipped by, so muffled and muddled he couldn't catch them. Fragments of... something. He couldn't remember. Only that he had to forget.

The same thing, over and over again, dogging his dreams relentlessly – and he didn't even recall it happening. A woman, brown-haired, soft-eyed, crying her heart out. In the background, a pony-tailed, bespectacled man stood, sneering. Both were dressed in white lab coats, yet he disliked the man as intensely as the woman drew him.

Then the world would swirl green and chokingly cold. It was then that the woman would die. And he could only watch as she convulsed and grew still. Being helpless... not being to do anything, even shout for assistance – riled him. The anger surprised him. It was the strongest emotion he had ever felt in such a long time. Time... did that even exist anymore, he wondered dully. Or had the world ceased to spin on its axis and lost its place in the cosmos?

Now it was a different dream. He watched as the woman fell to the floor again, but this time she did not fade away. Instead it was a different face that looked out at him, all cold steel and naked brutality. Alien. Invulnerable. He recoiled despite himself, closing his eyes to shut out the sight. Tried to scream, but no sound came from parched lips.

But it continued. Flames, flickering red against an ebony sky. Silver hair and cat-green eyes, malevolent and bitter. The figure turned to look at him and it was his face, glaring back at him through the ages.

Then it spoke, "I am your son."

And his world shattered.

When he wakes, at long last, it is to a different time. And to a future that perhaps he will change. He does not know. But he has found his name at last, and he knows what he must do.

The coffin lid slides open, and light streams in, light as he has not seen in many, many years.