Bakugo and charlette

The U.A. outskirts maintenance wing had always sounded like it was holding its breath - metal cooling with a low ticking, distant pipes knocking against old brackets, the occasional hiss from a vent that never quite sealed. Tonight, that quiet got ripped apart by a burst of static in the support channel Charlette was monitoring, the kind that made the speakers in the tech room spit and crackle as if they were trying to chew through the signal.

Charlette leaned closer anyway, fingers hovering above the controls. The emergency feed flickered between camera angles of the abandoned corridors and a shaky map that kept trying to correct itself. Someone’s voice cut through for half a second - ragged, too close to the mic - then a clean tone replaced it, crisp and wrong, like a lock clicking into place.

“Kaminari, keep your head down,” Aizawa’s voice came through, distant but sharp. “We’ve got a fast-response assignment. Bakugo and support. Now.”

Charlette’s throat tightened. She could feel it before anyone said it - like the incident wasn’t just happening out there, it was pushing toward her. The static spiked again, and a location marker on her screen snapped into focus: the abandoned maintenance wing near the outer fence line. No students should’ve been there. No staff should’ve been there. And yet the feed showed movement - two small heat signatures stumbling through a corridor, their lights stuttering as they tried to find a way out.

The second marker pulsed a fraction slower, like it was dragging.

That was when her own comms chirped - different channel, different urgency. A technician’s voice, strained, rushed into her ear. “Charlette Marlow, you’re listed as on-site support for the incident. The system flagged you as… relevant.”

Relevant. Like the building itself had decided she mattered.

Charlette pushed the thought away and forced her voice steady. “Relevant how?”

The reply came too fast. “We don’t know. It just - it just tags you when the signal hits.”

Before she could argue, the broadcast on her screen glitched again, and a name - her name - flashed across the corner. Not as text from a system message. It looked like it had been recorded and then slammed into the feed like a slap.

Charlette’s skin went cold.

Across the room, the doors to the support bay hissed open. Katsuki Bakugo stepped in like the air owed him money - boots loud on the floor, eyes narrowed at the comms panel, blond hair ruffled from the motion of running. He didn’t look surprised to be called, but he did look annoyed. That kind of annoyance usually meant he was already halfway to blowing through whatever stood in his way.

“What is it?” he demanded, voice roughened by speed.

Charlette didn’t even have time to decide whether to approach him carefully. The answer was already burning behind her teeth. She pointed to the screen, to the flickering cameras and the marker locking onto the maintenance wing. “Civilians are in there. Two at least. The feed’s cutting in and out - someone’s using a signal jammer or a relay. And the system tagged me when the broadcast hits.”

Bakugo’s gaze snapped to her hand, then to her face. “Why the hell would it tag you?”

Charlette swallowed. The name on the feed still felt like it was under her tongue, an ugly taste she couldn’t wash out. “I don’t know. But it’s not random. It’s connected.”

His jaw flexed. “So you’re telling me you’re not just watching. You’re involved.”

“I’m not involved,” she said, too quickly. She forced her voice down. “I’m the one it’s pointing at. That’s different.”

Bakugo’s eyes narrowed, not at her - at the screen, at the corridor lines and the way the map kept trying to re-route itself. “If civilians are in there, we go in. No debate.”

The decision didn’t feel like relief. It felt like a door being kicked open on something that had been waiting.

Charlette moved with him to the exit without another argument. The hallway outside the support bay felt brighter than it had any right to, lights flickering as if they were nervous. The air changed as they neared the outskirts - cooler, drier, laced with dust and the faint metallic tang of old maintenance corridors.

By the time they reached the fast-response gear, the emergency vehicles were already staged. U.A.’s perimeter lights cut harsh lines through the dark, and beyond them the abandoned wing sat like a scar, half-hidden by fencing and overgrown shrubs.

Charlette’s comms were still alive - static, then a sharp tone, then a new burst of sound that made the hairs on her arms lift. This time, the audio wasn’t a plea. It was a clear transmission, layered with interference, like someone had forced their voice through a broken throat.

“Charlette,” it said, and her name landed perfectly, even with the scrambling hiss. “You can’t keep pretending you don’t hear me.”

Bakugo stopped short, hand already half-raised as if he could punish the air into silence. “What the hell.”

...