As the leaves changed from summer's optimistic green to the vibrant red of autumn, so too changed the function of the hospital in which she made her home. Where before Marinette had been mostly tasked with attending to the sick wing, an influx of bombings around RAF bases had meant a steady supply of injured soldiers clamoring for her care and attention.
She chastised herself for her eagerness, of course, but after months of changing wet rags and bedpans, the excitement of putting her skills into practice once more was enough to incite an unreasonably cheery demeanor in the once timid nurse.
After her discussion with Private Lahiffe, as she had later learned he was called, Marinette's work had steadily increased. She spent her days setting bones and removing shrapnel from wounds as horrific as any of those she'd seen on the battlefield. At night, the earth quavered and shook as bombs fell both near, and far away. It was more than common to be aroused from her slumber by the call of the head nurse, asking for volunteers to continue their duties well into the early morning hours. As exhausting as it was, Marinette did her job with the unwavering professionalism of a nurse who had already spent time on the battlefield. Despite the painful nature of their cries, the agony of soldiers was nothing new to her.
All of that changed on the seventh of September.
Marinette awoke to a trembling more terrible than any that she'd ever known. For hours already, the booming blasts and explosions both near and far refused to cease, but now that the world had quieted, she could hear a new influx of sounds coming from the hospital itself. She considered waiting for the head nurse's orders to assist, but could not lie still long enough to hear them. Without a second thought, Marinette sprang from her bed and made her way upstairs.
The base was in chaos. An airplane hanger on the far side had been hit, and a small fleet destroyed. Smaller bombs had hit other parts of the base, and the smell of smoke and ash was heavy and choking. Soldiers, nurses, and janitorial staff alike rushed about frantically, trying to put out the fires, and to find survivors among the rubble.
Even as the moon shone brightly in the sky, hoards of bodies streamed into the hospital—more people than she had ever seen in a single attack, and without the familiar uniforms of the army or air force. Every cot was filled before day had even hinted at its arrival. Every wing was packed, every doctor on his feet, every nurse rushing to and fro. It was like nothing the base had ever experienced before.
However, what made that night different was not just the proximity of the physical destruction. It was not just the quantity of patients, or the severity of their wounds. It was not even the intensity of the shaking, which seemed so violent that the earth itself might split open wide and reveal the flames of hell beneath. No. What made tonight different was that the patients which were now entering the hospital en mass were not soldiers, but civilians.
Later, Marinette would learn what had happened. Later, Marinette would connect the dots between the errant German bombers and the attack on Berlin she'd discussed with Private Lahiffe. Later, she would learn of the all-consuming anger of the Füher, and his promise that "If they declare that they will attack our cities on a large scale, we will erase theirs!" Later, Marinette would look back on the almost juvenile game of retaliation being played by political leaders of the highest rank, and wonder if it weren't all avoidable. Later, she would have time and composure to consider these sorts of thoughts, but now there was only screams.
"My mama! My mama!" a child shrieked, somehow managing to cut through the deafening noise of the crowd. She sat upright in a cot far too large for her, in a room that had clearly been collecting patients since long before Marinette awoke.
"Be calm, please," she began haltingly, what little English she had acquired now all but failing her in the heat of the moment. It didn't help that she hadn't seen, so much as worked with a child since before the war began, and the girl's shrill voice made translation even more difficult than usual. From what she could tell, the child was looking for her mother.
"How does… how does your mother appear?" she managed, only to be met with a flood of sobs and an incoherent jumble of words that didn't, in any way, seem to resemble a personal description. It was just as she was about to ask again—to take the child's hand in hers and try her best to calm her and perhaps to acquire some shred of information that might help her locate the mother—that she noticed the abnormality which had necessitated her hospitalization in the first place.
Despite showing no indication of physical pain, the child's arm hung limp by her side, her fingers and wrist twisted at unnatural angles. A series of quickly constructed tourniquets wound their way around what Marinette could only assume was irreversible damage.
"Marinette!"
The doctor's voice snapped her out of her shocked analysis.
"Marinette, I need you with me in the surgery wing," the doctor commanded just calmly enough not to upset the patients, but with a sense of urgency she hadn't heard before.
"But, her mother… her arm…" Marinette began, already following him out of the room. The second they were beyond earshot of the patients, the doctor stopped, and explained.
"The arm is in stable condition for tonight. It's been crushed, but the bleeding stopped shortly after she arrived. She's lucky there were other people working in the newsroom at this late an hour. She was brought in by a journalist. Her mother, though…"
"Is she-?" Marinette couldn't bear to ask.
"We don't know," the doctor replied, solemnly. "The building came down on top of them. We just don't know."
Before Marinette could stop herself, she rushed back into the room, and hugged the child tightly, as though trying to physically transfer her own strength of will into the girl's tiny body, all the while being careful to avoid causing her any pain.
"We will keep you safe," she whispered, before immediately following the doctor to the surgical wing.
She wasn't sure if it was shock or relief or simply the eye of the hurricane, but as she walked away, Marinette dared to believe that the child's screams had temporarily quelled.
The rest of the night was spent deeply involved in emergency surgery after surgery, until Marinette was so tired she lacked the ability to stand, much less create precise incisions. When she could no longer keep on her feet, Marinette was relieved by another, equally skilled nurse, who allowed her to nap in the corner of the theater, until the sun finally rose and Marinette once again found herself attending to her duties.
On the battlefield, the number of injuries had always been low in her regiment. There were always enough nurses to treat the men, and as much as she never believed they were suited to endure the tortures that had befallen them, they seemed to take comfort in the fact that they had signed up for them. Today, there was no such alleviation. Her patients had not enlisted themselves in any army. They had not pledged themselves to any cause. Their homes were not supposed to have become a battlefield. There was no glory in injury, no victory in sacrifice. These people were terrified, and Marinette couldn't blame them one bit.
Nor, unfortunately, did she have the faculties to comfort them. Despite attempting to pump out every fiber of tranquilizing charisma she had once been so certain she possessed, Marinette could do nothing to ease her charges fears but give them space and hope that things would settle down soon.
She flitted about from wing to wing, patient to patient, doctor to doctor, and surgery to surgery, doing everything in her power to make herself useful until at last what had seemed like an endless flow of bodies finally ebbed, and the hospital was able to begin releasing those with only minor injuries.
It was at this point, that Marinette was able to once again return to the child about whom her thoughts had never wavered for more than a minute at a time.
She found her exactly where she had left her, still alone in a cot that was far too large for her diminutive form, but this time completely calm. Her arm, if possible, looked worse than before, but was still attached. She knew that was not likely to remain the case, but had no intention of mentioning it until a decision was reached.
"How do you feel?" she began, as she had been trained to do.
"I don't feel anything. Where's my mama?" the child replied, matter-of-factly. She hoped this was a symptom of excellent painkillers, and not a side effect of trauma.
"We… do not know…" Marinette admitted before she could think of a better answer. "I am Marinette. Do you have a name?"
"… no…" the child muttered.
"No?"
"Manon," she muttered again, and then asked clearly, "Why can't I see my mama?"
"We do not know where it is that—" Marinette began, but Manon cut her off.
"Are they going to put my arm back?"
"Excuse me?" she blinked.
"I can't feel my arm. I think I lost it in the rubble. Can the doctors put it back on?" Manon asked drowsily, with far less concern than one might expect in her situation.
Marinette was taken aback by the question. Her first instinct was to do as she'd been taught and assuage the girl with pretty words and talk of hope, but the question had been asked with such earnestness that she felt candor her only option.
"We… we will try, Manon, but it is not likely that we can."
The child blinked slowly, sleep clouding her vision, but offered no real acknowledgment. Marinette took it as her cue to leave, kissing her gently on the forehead and carefully tucking her in.
When she was almost out of the room, she heard a tiny voice peep, "Marinette?"
"Yes, Manon?"
"It's okay if you can't do it, Marinette. My mama says the important thing is that you tried." She yawned deeply and nestled into her pillow. "That's what my mama says…" and she was out like a light.