Not wanting to detour, Kerrigan telekinetically rips a rifle out of the hands of an imaginary soldier, hissing through her teeth as it proves much harder than it should to lift something as light as small arms. The man she's robbed tries to jump her, so she breaks his wrist and "kills" him with his own combat knife, far more efficiently than Planker had been doing earlier. It's not like he's real, and it's not like they're not planning on having her kill Planker himself in a few minutes.

"So this isn't just some bad dream crap?" Kerrigan asks, only half rhetorically. "This is what really happened when the Stuff went wild?"

They pass what remains of a Confederate platoon—the original Confederates, single-shot rifles clutched in dead hands, bayonets fixed for the last charge that had killed them, their gray uniforms soaked in blood, their eyes glassy and staring. Their battle flag hangs from its pole, cockeyed but basically vertical where it's planted in the mud amidst the corpses, the only thing still standing. Kerrigan tears the familiar standard down with a growl, throwing the flag down into the blood and dirt where it belongs.