The bizarre partnership the Sniper had formed with the Pyro opened his eyes to a whole new layer of interaction he'd never noticed before. He began to see just how badly his teammates treated the mysterious, fire-suited being. Amazing, the sort of things one would never even notice until something called attention to it. Now he couldn't ignore it: it sucked to be the Pyro. Naturally, he felt compelled to be nice to her, simply because nobody else would.

Of course, he was the one member of the team Joan felt she could trust. It was a strange feeling, not being nervous or ashamed around a teammate; it was a small blessing, but it was appreciated. As she wore down, she decided she had to share her secret with someone, and the only one she trusted with the knowledge of her identity was her only ally, the Sniper. She made sure he heard her opening the door and stepping into the bunker, so he would glance over.

"G'day," he greeted her. When she didn't make any sounds in response, he looked over. Good, now she had his attention.

She hesitated. Was this a good idea? Her heart was racing. He could easily blow her cover to the whole team, and then she'd be sent away for sure. But how long could she stay closed up inside this suit? She still had to find some way to avoid the operation for the ubercharge procedure – or maybe she didn't. If she could get the Sniper on her side, maybe he'd be able to keep the Medic from letting the information slip when he inevitably discovered her gender. One step at a time, Joan thought. She couldn't let a train of what-ifs lock her up. She took a deep breath, and took the gas mask off.

It took what seemed like an eternity for the Sniper to finally register what he was seeing. It was so far beyond what he expected that the individual details just weren't adding up in his head.

"My God!" he finally said, "You're a sheila!" Still not quite believing his eyes, he looked over each detail. She had pale, sickly-looking skin, very faint freckles, and pale, dry lips. Her face was proportioned well enough, but her weariness showed. Her shoulder-length red hair was wild and stuck out at odd angles from being smothered inside the gas mask. But what struck the Australian most were her eyes: deep steel grey, framed by both dark lashes and dark circles. It finally sunk in: Pyro was a woman. That was unexpected, at the very least.

"You… I can trust you not to tell anyone, right?" Joan asked quietly. She was somewhat startled by the sound of her own unobstructed voice. It was a surreal experience for both of them. "If they knew, they'd-!"

"I understand exactly what you're hiding from, mate." He knew very well what would happen to her if anyone else found out. "I owe you this much, at least. Yeah, I'll keep your secret; you've got my word – bushman's honor!"

The Pyro let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sniper."

"Name's Mick, by the way. Mick Mundy."

"Uh, Joan Gypsy."

"Great to finally meet you. Your secret's safe with me, Pyro." There was no guarantee that'd he'd keep his word, but Joan felt like she could trust him.

It felt so great, in fact, to finally open up to someone, that she continued talking to him, and that quickly turned into a conversation – something neither one of them got nearly enough of.

The Scout drifted into that familiar, hazy dream-world where reality had no hold on what was possible. He'd been there often enough, but still it had mysteries and new secrets to offer him. This time, he was in an idyllic field of grass and flowers, which seemed to him to be two kilometers north of heaven and a mile east of the middle of nowhere. He was sitting on a solitary rock near a lone tree, watching a young girl playing in the meadow.

He had no idea who she was, but she was obviously important, or she wouldn't be there. Everything in his dreams was important in some way. The girl, singing in some language he didn't understand, looked about five years old, with shiny orange locks of hair as the only bright color on her – her skin was very pale, and even her bare feet seemed untouched by dirt or mud; the flowers woven into her hair were black and white roses; and her dress was as pure and white as the little dove she was chasing. Even her eyes were colorless.

Finally, the Scout caught a snippet of song he understood, a few words in plain English: "The Sniper knows the Secret, just between him and the Sun!" Scout sighed. Why did everything in his dreams have to be tied up in riddles?

The girl finally seemed to notice his presence, and she brought a bundle of wildflowers over. She looked up at him with those haunting eyes.

"Uh, yo, what's up," the Scout said, not really sure what the girl wanted. She held out a flower to him.

"This is rosemary – it's for remembrance." The Scout played along, taking the flower from her. She continued to pick blossoms out of her bundle and hand them to him. "Those are pansies, for thoughts. There's some fennel for you, and columbines. Here's rue for you, and some for me. I'd give you some daisies, but they all withered when the war started."

"Okay, thank you." Scout found it was best not to argue with or resist the dream-people. If he went along with what they wanted him to do, they usually helped him. "What secret were you talking about earlier?"

The girl giggled. "I can't tell you!" When the Scout asked why, she simply said, "Because then it wouldn't be a secret anymore!" She ran over to the tree, which was covered in beautiful yellow flowers, and started dancing around it, following the dove, which seemed to be playing with her rather than actually trying to escape.

"He watches through the glass full moon, bringing shooting stars of doom," the girl said. Okay, Scout thought, that was kind of creepy. The dove landed in the little girl's hands, and she laughed joyfully as it cooed. Then it flew away and landed in the tree. The girl climbed up after it and sat on the branches among the flowers. She looked at the Scout. "Do you know what sort of tree this is?"

"No idea."

"It's an acacia. They say the Australian ones are fire-resistant. They bloom most beautifully, don't you think? A long time ago, people used to say their flowers represented close friendship – or secret love, depending on who you asked. I can see why. They're such pretty blossoms."

The Scout just listened to her babble on, not trying to make any sense of it. "You're a strange kid…" The girl just shrugged.

At this point, the mercenary boy was slowly dragged into the dizzy, half-real fog of awareness in the early morning. He sat up and blinked sleepily. Haven't had a dream like that in a while, he thought.