[This is news he hadn't known. Good thing he knows he can trust Jack. Someone with the ability to hear things on the wind back home could've made his life a nightmare instead of a depressing travelogue.]

No, it-- it wasn't wrong. [Bruce quiets. The mechanics of how Jack listens to the wind are secondary to the real matter at hand, and he knows it. One hand creeps up to rub at his neck, an unthinking gesture of self-consciousness. His voice is level, composed, but there's a softer note of mourning sustained beneath it.] That's me. Or it's, I don't know, I thought for a long time that it wasn't me. That I couldn't be that, that mindless, destructive... [He trails off, amends,] Maybe it is.

[Bruce gives a short sigh, eyes dropping.] I can't tell anymore.