The hallways of Superhero High hum softly, the air thrumming with energy and chatter. You’re walking beside Tim, Jason, and Dick, the four of you in your casual clothes, weapons stashed, trying to blend in for once. The mission for today was simple: sit through a guest lecture by Red Tornado on “combat conditioning.”
You should’ve known something was off when he didn’t specify whose conditioning.
The door slides open with a low hiss. The moment you step inside, a wave of noise hits — squeals, whispers, the sound of someone physically collapsing. You blink, confused, until your gaze lands on the massive holographic display at the front of the room.
Then you freeze.
Because up there — in 4K, full-color, crisp detail — is Jason.
Shirtless. Just gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, muscles slick with sweat, every flex in perfect high-definition. His chest rises and falls in slow motion, veins standing out, jaw tight, hair damp. It’s not a training video; it’s an assault.
You can hear the collective sound of half the room losing consciousness.
Jason’s brow twitches. “What the fuck,” he mutters, voice low, dangerous, but with that little edge of disbelief.
A girl near the front literally fans herself with her notebook. “That’s Red Hood? …Holy hell.”
Jason’s hands go to his hips, and he mutters, “This is why I don’t do PR.”
The holo flickers — and suddenly, Dick.
The black and blue suit clings to him like second skin, muscles defined under the thin sheen of sweat. He’s mid-flip, graceful, poised — the perfect balance between strength and elegance. Every line of his body screams fluidity. His hair’s damp, a faint smile tugging at his lips, like he knows he’s being watched — like he’s performing.
Someone in the front actually whispers, “Is that… Nightwing? Oh my god, he’s real.”
Dick’s face immediately goes red. “O-okay, wow. I didn’t know I signed up for a visual aid.”
Jason smirks. “Enjoying the fame, Grayson?”
“Shut it, Todd.”
“Hard to, when your ass is literally center frame.”
“IT’S FOR ACADEMIC PURPOSES!”
Jason snorts, “Sure, sure.”
Then — Tim.
The footage is slowed down (because of course it is). He’s in a dark training room, sweat clinging to his shirt, his body lean but tight, all definition and endurance. Every movement is precise. There’s a cut on his cheek, his hair a mess, his eyes locked on a target — pure focus.
Someone actually gasps, “He looks like he hasn’t slept in days but… somehow that’s hot?”
Tim looks like he’s about to implode. “WHY is it slow motion?? Who—who edited this??”
Dick’s biting his lip, trying not to laugh. “Hey, at least they got your good side.”
“I DON’T HAVE A GOOD SIDE WHEN I’M SWEATING, DICK.”
“Debatable.”
Jason leans back, grinning like a devil. “Oh yeah, no. I’m framing this.”
And before you can even breathe…
The holo flickers again.
And there you are.
Sports bra. Low-hung sweatpants. Muscles flexed mid-strike, sweat tracing every line. Your body moves like liquid power, coiled grace, sheer determination. There’s that glint in your eyes — the one you get when you’re fully locked in the fight. You’re focused, alive, dangerous.
The sound that erupts from the class is not human.
A chorus of gasps, squeals, and muffled screams. Someone whispers, “Is it illegal to look at that?” Another just mumbles, “I think I saw god.”
You’re standing there, frozen, mouth open in horror as your holographic self lands a flawless roundhouse kick.
Jason wheezes, “Oh my god— they used the sparring footage from the Cave!”
Tim just mutters, “We are never getting invited back here.”
Dick’s eyes are wide, a hand covering his mouth. “Okay, that’s—wow. You look—uh—”
Jason’s dying, laughter shaking his shoulders. “The class is nosebleeding, you realize that? Like half these kids are on the floor—”
And he’s not wrong. There’s actual chaos. One poor student is clinging to the desk like they’re seeing the divine, another is clutching their chest dramatically.