It's 8:45 PM on a Thursday evening in the autumn of a year of no particular consequence.
Eobard Thawne has the collar of his vegan leather jacket turned up against the nipping wind, head down as he stalks the city streets in search of some distraction. In search of anything, really, that will take his mind off of the imperious red devil who torments his every waking moment.
The Flash and the Reverse Flash. Alpha and Omega. Cause and effect. For all Eobard's resources and intellect, he never saw the cosmic joke coming. Never had he even considered that chasing the shadow of his hero would send him down the path to becoming the twisted antithesis of the man he so admired.
He's getting sick from it all, going mad, driving himself right round the bend at the thought that his destiny has already been written on his behalf. That both their destinies have already been set in stone, immutable, eternal.
He worries the ring on his finger, spinning it around and around until the skin's rubbed raw, but with the speed force healing factor he barely notices the sting. He doesn't know why he's out here anonymously wandering the streets like he is. He could jump into the suit and race away, run anywhere, but he knows good and well that there's no point in trying to outrun the Flash.
Eobard stops suddenly and turns. Two doors back there's a seedy bar, called Joe's by the look of the garish neon in the window, and really right now all he needs is a drink or two dozen. If he's quick about it, he may even manage a decent buzz; science has made great strides in the area of synthetic alcohol (along with every other food-like product developed to counterbalance dwindling natural resources, but who's counting).
The interior of Joe's is dim, stuffy, and unappealingly decorated with early 21st century kitsch. Eobard stalks towards the bar anyway, finding as he does so that the change in temperature is enough to make him uncomfortable. Speedsters do tend to run a little hot. He shrugs out of his jacket and throws it over a stool, preferring to lean dramatically against the tacky bar top.
He's casting his eyes in search of the bartender when the only other man seated at the bar speaks.
"You're late," he grumbles. To no one in particular, Eobard thinks, ignoring him. The cost of visiting a bar would be the drunks, wouldn't it.
But the man turns and looks right at him, and Eobard is forced into an inadvertent double-take, not sure what to make of this sunbeam transposed onto a human face. "I - I'm sorry?" he stumbles, "Do I know you?"
The human ray of sunshine clicks it down a merciful notch, confusion passing like clouds over his once-sunny expression. "Come on, Thawne … it's me…?"
Ah. Awkward. Everyone thinks they know a Thawne. Eobard forces a look of recognition into his features, stiffly raised eyebrows and a too-wide smile. "Right, right," he says with a self-deprecating laugh, "from the country club! You … we played tennis every other Tuesday, didn't we? It's been so long, I forget."
"Um, no." The stranger shifts back on his stool, half rising from his seat. "It's Barry. Barry Allen?"
Eobard's pretty sure he's never met a Barry Allen in his life.
"Oh, of course! Barry Allen! We were lab partners in Advanced - oh, the hard sciences all blur together, don't they? How've you been?"
This so-called Barry Allen shakes his head, sliding his skinny legs all the way off the stool as if he means to go. Somehow, he looks - what is that look, anyway? Disappointment?
"No, uh, I'm sorry." He smoothes both his hands over his hair, holding his arms akimbo behind his head a moment before dropping them with a bitten-back grunt. "I'm sorry, I'm supposed to be meeting someone … else. Sorry to have bothered you."
He grabs his blood-red windbreaker from the counter and is gone fast enough to give Eobard situational whiplash. Shame, really. There are all sorts of distractions available in this world, and he's never been picky; good looking guy like that, whoever he was, Eobard wouldn't have minded buying him a drink.
"C'est la vie," he says aloud, folding over the counter to help himself to whatever might be within reach. He comes back with a bottle of what appears to be a single malt whiskey substitute. "Or should I say, bibo ergo sum."