A/N:

Praise and criticism equally welcome.

This piece takes place right after Episode 2 – The Pact.

I chose to slip Bane the fake Venom while trying to win his trust. During the ambush on the convoy, I chose to follow Harley. I chose to take down agents in violent ways since the group was watching.

The fear in the agents' eyes. Harley's laughter. Bane's shouts. The whoosh of the hammer, the thud of Bane's fists. The headlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating clouds of breath on the chilly air. John's soft giggles coming from the staticky radio. The thump of agents hitting the pavement bonelessly.

Bruce gripped the edge of the grey-veined Calacatta marble counter until his fingers turned white and pain thrummed dully up his hands. He stared into the darkness down the sink drain, seeing nothing.

The heavy clomping of Bane's boots. The metallic echo of Harley's hammer smashing car doors, hoods, windshields. The crackle of flesh and clothing freezing solid in an instant. Harley's nasal laughter. Bane's roar of rage as the Pact left him behind, the placebo Venom doing its work (although the effort had been in vain; the Pact had still escaped with Riddler's body and Bane had still escaped capture). The sound it made when a person who had been frozen through shattered into a dozen pieces. The choking, helpless panic that had clawed at his throat as Waller told him that she wouldn't be able to come and save the day. Wouldn't be able to come and end the slaughter, end the Pact's plans. The desperation sinking in his gut as he did what he could to minimize the casualties while remaining above suspicion.

Bruce was no stranger to violence. No stranger to death, even. But those agents had been hurt and killed on his watch. Depending on how you looked at it, he had even helped. He'd had to keep up the charade after all. A few agents' skulls had to be knocked and noses crushed, for the greater good.

He thought he might be sick. He turned on the faucet so Alfred wouldn't hear if he started retching. The poor man had enough to worry about.

It wasn't the violence that was affecting him. It was the guilt that caused snapshots of the ambush to replay in his head, the knowledge that he was the one that had made it all possible. He'd tried to earn the Pact's trust just enough to be able to trip them up while they weren't paying attention, and instead they had taken a giant leap forwards with his assistance and the Agency was reeling.

Waller had been right when she had said he'd have to get his hands dirty. Damn her, but she'd been right. And from the look of things, they weren't done getting dirty. The Agency hadn't been able to intercept the Pact mid-theft as planned, and Bruce found himself still along for the ride until another opportunity presented itself, whenever the hell that was.

And now Catwoman was involved. She would be lucky if she didn't end up as collateral damage, taken out by either Waller or Harley. Damn it all. If only Waller had been able to hold up her end of the plan. The Pact would be safely locked away and their schemes foiled. He wouldn't be burdened with fears about what the Agency wanted with Riddler's iced body or why Catwoman would associate with a group of vile murderers.

Although, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely surprised. Her moral compass had always tilted a little more south than he was comfortable with.

Bruce looked up into his reflection in the gilded-framed bathroom mirror. He saw pale and sallow skin, dark bags, and a twitching jaw. He looked away quickly. It had been almost twenty-four hours since the Pact had raided the Agency convoy, and he was still spinning helplessly in a convoluted swirl of guilt and anger and fear. They were far from the simple band of hoodlums he had imagined them to be, back when John first mentioned them at Lucius's funeral. He couldn't shake the odd sense that this was all a bad nightmare. The Agency's secrecy, the Pact's plan, Catwoman's involvement, everything was falling down around his ears.

And where was he? He hadn't killed anyone, but he had been unable to prevent the Pact from completely succeeding thus far. Not only that. He had activated the EMP. He had beaten the agents that stood in his way. He had scanned Riddler's cloudy, frozen eyeballs. Was he not as much of a participant as any of the other members of the Pact, despite his ultimate goal?

Bruce felt dizzy. The tops of his hands were blotchy and a cold sweat was beading on his brow and upper lip. He realized he was breathing heavily. He picked up his watch from where it rested next to the sink. 6:13 PM. He had intended to get some rest before slipping into the Batsuit for the night, but he doubted he would be getting any sleep until after his nightly prowl, when exhaustion always pulled him under as strong as a drug.

An itch ran down his spine and he realized he was sweating through his $3000 suit. An irrational rush of anger overtook him. The Pact had made him participate in the robbery at Wayne Tower and the ambush on Waller's convoy. They were the reason his hands were dirtied, his soul soiled. And now they were making him ruin his suit. He clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to drive his fist through his mirror. They would pay. They would see the gleam of triumph in his eye at the moment he betrayed them, they would see that he had been lying to them the whole time and working against them all along. They would see they had been tricked, played for fools. And they would answer for their crimes, disappear into some dark hole in the ground for the rest of their lives (a deep, nasty part of him hoped they resisted arrest – a piece of his father). Except, perhaps, for John. Bruce's anger hiccupped. He would put in a good word for John, say he had been manipulated, get him back to Arkham where he could be helped.

Bruce splashed water from the still-running tap onto his face and shut it off. He let his quiet fury wash away his fear and doubt, as the water had washed away the sweat. For every sin he committed in the name of bringing the Pact down, they would pay twofold. They were forcing his hand. It was they who bore the full weight of the blame, not him.

So he told himself.