Marceline's mother gave the teddy to her when she turned three. It was not a pretty toy, as her mother had never been particularly gifted with sewing, but it was Marceline's, and the young child was endlessly thrilled with the bear. She had instantly named the floppy, long-limbed thing Hambo, and declared it her best friend.

It was easily the cerulean girl's most treasured possession. Whenever the air raid sirens began to wail, Marceline refused to take cover with the rest of the folk until she had her bear securely in her arms. She was unconcerned with the danger of being outside in the middle of the war; the child was fully convinced that Hambo would protect her in case of any danger.

She was accidentally proven right on one occasion. The siren had begun to sound a hair too late for Marceline to both find her toy and get to safety. Her mother very nearly had a panic attack. Fortunately, even the nearest bomb did not go off close enough to do much more than fling some shrapnel in her general direction - the brunt of the shrapnel in question was caught on her bear, tearing both arms half off and shearing away a sizable chunk of his head.

Marceline had been damn near inconsolable at the bear's wounds. As soon as she was able, the tiny girl had tracked down her mother again and held up the tattered toy, hysterically beseeching the woman to fix him. Her mother had tried to first ensure that Marceline herself was alright, but on seeing that the child was well enough to be adamant that Hambo was fixed first, she fetched her sparse sewing kit and set to patching up the ugly bear.

The girl merely watched, anxious, as her mother sewed patches onto Hambo, sealing up the gaping wounds that her bear had sustained. Numerous times, Marceline asked her mother if the needle was hurting Hambo only to be reassured that, no, it probably wasn't hurting Hambo - but, Marceline always persisted, what if it was? Well, it was just going to have to hurt a little, then, but he would be fine soon so it was okay.

Soon enough, the ragged bear was returned to the worried young girl, who instantly lit up, hugging her Hambo tightly and apologizing for having to hurt him, but assuring him that he was alright now. Only then would Marceline sit still to allow her mother to patch her up.

That was not, obviously, the only time that Hambo was injured. As active a child as Marceline was, it was a rare week that she did not run up to her mother, frantic and in tears, to have her patch him up further. Eventually, her mother simply taught Marceline how to crudely sew up her bear so the girl could do it herself. Marceline was thrilled with the information - imagine, now she could repair her own friend! However, even after she mastered a rudimentary stitch, she still preferred to have her mom do it for her. Her mother was good at fixing things.

That was how it was, for a while. Marceline stayed with her mom, begging the older woman to fix her teddy, and only doing the repairs herself when she had to. That was all fine with her. She liked it that way.

Marceline was very young, though. She didn't realize that, in the middle of wars, things very rarely stayed the same.

It had been about the same situation as Marceline found herself in. She was out in the woods, playing with Hambo as always, when the sirens went off again. They sounded different that day, she recalled, but as far as she knew, it didn't mean anything different. The child picked up her toy and began back towards the rubble of the town to take shelter.

She was almost to the town when she heard her mother calling for her, screaming really, more frantic than Marceline had ever heard her. Marceline called back a response, wondering why on earth her mom was so worried. It wasn't like they weren't bombed once a week anyways. It was beginning to frighten the young girl. Why was her mom screaming for her so loudly? Did it have something to do with the sirens that sounded different? Was -

Marceline had only just caught sight of her mother when the world exploded.

The girl would look back on the event later, much later, and decide that the only reason she had survived a blast so huge so close was that she was half-immortal even then, thanks to her father.

When she was sure that she could move again, the battered girl, her newly-injured Hambo clutched tight to her chest, dug her way out of the wreckage that had covered her. It was absolutely silent. No sirens, no animals, no people. The town rubble had crumbled further, crushed under the spectacular blast. Marceline herself was silent. Her grip on her teddy tightened.

She waded into the rubble as quietly as she could manage, wide eyes raking through the remains of the town. Marceline didn't bother calling for her mother. She didn't have to. Her foot hit a rock and it went skittering, a roar in the absolute silence. The noise it made when it hit something made her look up.

…

Oh. That was her mother's crude sewing kit. Marceline scooped up the kit to look it over. It was sort of intact, still. The spool of thread was still there, and the needle (though it was now bent) and the tiny bag of buttons, but the minute pair of scissors was gone. She looked at the kit, and then down at Hambo. His eye had come off, and he had several tears that needed to be sewn up again.

Marceline sat down quietly in the rubble, threading the needle with chubby fingers like her mother had taught her. "You're my only friend now," the little girl informed Hambo, carefully beginning to stitch up his rips.

They weren't as nice as her mom's.

A/N: So, I wanted to write a thing with angst. So I wrote this thing. With angst. I might continue it, even.