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The cave was unnervingly quiet. Monitors hummed, casting pale light across the cave, reflecting on the tense faces of those gathered. Bruce sat at the head of the room, rigid, eyes fixed on the screens, jaw tight. Alfred stood behind him, calm as ever, but even his composed frame seemed pressed by the weight of what they were seeing. Dick leaned over a bank of monitors, Steph perched near the edge of a console, Damian’s hands rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, and Cass crouched at a viewing station, eyes darting between the live feeds.
On three separate screens, Red Hood moved through Gotham, simultaneously striking from three different locations. One stormed a warehouse, disarming and taking down armed men with inhuman precision. Another vaulted along rooftops, shadows swallowing him as bullets flew past. The third slipped through alleys near the docks, silent and deadly, knife slicing through resistance without a sound. Each of them mirrored the same skill, instinct, and calculated efficiency.
“How is he in three places at once?” Dick whispered, voice low, disbelief edging every word.
Bruce didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the monitors, scanning every movement. “It’s rare,” he said finally. “He’s projecting himself, extending across multiple points simultaneously. The copies share everything—sight, sound, intent, and likely every sensation. Every hit, every cut, every fear his clones experience… he feels it all. That is why this cannot last indefinitely.”
Steph’s hands hovered over the edge of the console. “So he’s one mind in three bodies… and he feels everything they feel?”
Damian’s frown deepened. “He’s not just one mind. He’s three minds, one consciousness stretched across three forms. And the longer each exists, the more it drains him—physically, mentally, and emotionally.”
Alfred’s voice cut through the tension, calm but measured. “If I may Master Bruce, even a man such as Master Todd cannot sustain this level of exertion for long without consequence. The strain alone is considerable.”
Bruce’s eyes didn’t leave the screens. “I know Alfred, I know."
And then, from the safehouse feed, a shadow moved. Jason Todd—the real Jason—visible in a dimly lit room, crouched on a table, staring at a wall lined with maps and surveillance tech.
Then it happened. All three simultaneously turned their attention upward. On-screen, the warehouse clone’s gun raised, the rooftop clone’s silhouette twisted, the alley Red Hood’s eyes flicked toward the camera. The shared intent was palpable, almost mocking in its precision.
The three Red Hoods individually fired at their surveillance cameras in their respective locations. Sparks flew, lenses shattered, monitors went dark in the Batcave. The bats' exhalations caught in the air, hands hovering uselessly over the consoles as static replaced the live feeds.
Within minutes, all three Red Hoods arrived at Jason’s safehouse. They stood silently before him, identical, patient, obedient extensions of his mind. He stepped forward, taking one clone’s gun in hand, raising it toward the blinking camera mounted in the corner of the room. The shot rang out, the lens shattering instantly, sparks cascading to the floor. The final feed flickered to static, leaving only shadows and the quiet hum of the city beyond.
Jason lowered the gun, stepping back. Three clones flanked him, silent and perfect. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat of all four was linked, echoing through him like waves of strain and control. Even in the calm of the room, the weight of his power pressed down, reminding him that nothing he had done so far was sustainable.
And in that quiet, calculated moment, the truth was undeniable. Gotham had no idea what was coming next.