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Summary
Nightwing scrambles for his rebreather, but can’t fasten it with both hands busy fending off frantic, adrenaline-flushed combatants. His fingers fumble with every third swing, and he flags but twice to a blow past his guard before deciding he can power through it and just breathe, damn it, focus on the next open hit.
Go.
Shake it off.
Let it pass over.
Go.