2. Fireworks
Fiona, although she wouldn't admit it out loud, dreams frequently. Most of the time it was of complete and utter nonsense that didn't make sense no matter the amount of squinting and head twisting she did in the wee hours of darkened, early mornings in her cot. She remembers each detail of her dreams perfectly; sometimes there were drab shapes flitting this way and that, other times there were bold explosions of colors and sounds akin to fireworks.
It didn't take long for her to wonder that someone she had once held close to her heart loved to play with the very same fireworks she heard in her dreams. Fiona hadn't been born a mercenary and enjoyed a brief childhood similar to many others who were fortunate, but there was always that one constant from before.
Fiona does not remember his face, nor his name, but she does remember the feelings of sheer elation and joy taking over her child-like soul whenever the sticks of gunpowder, lovingly crafted by a pair of large but steady hands that were heavily calloused, would soar up into the skies before exploding in a vibrant display of reds, yellows, and blues.
It isn't until she watches one of her comrades attempt to craft a piece of armor from a sheet of scrap metal that she realizes that she does know the identity of the man she constantly dreams of:
Father.