He has killed them one-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-three times. Of those times, he has done this particular scenario seven-hundred-and-forty-four times. He knows how this goes.

First, the preparation. Tips to the police redirected their focus exactly five-and-a-half miles elsewhere. Roadblocks were placed behind the scientists when they turned away from the Big Belly Burger two blocks from their fate. Pedestrians were distracted with various ruses.

(a fire, gang shoot-out, and three bank robberies were spaced two to four streets away from each other. All of them commenced roughly two minutes and fifteen seconds after the blocks were placed. He was especially careful to emphasize to the participants the importance of timing. He did not want the couple to see these events. He absolutely abhorred any repeat of the one-hundredth-and-twenty-fourth, two-hundred-and-thirty-second, and four-hundred-and-seventh times.)

It was almost pathetic how easily he disrupted the camera feed in each intersection, playing a seven-years-five-months-and-six-days-old recording for three hours.

(he was caught on his five-hundredth-and-ninety-seventh on a whim. A tabloid reporter actually went through a year's worth of tapes and found the one he used that day).

Civilians were usually asleep at three in the morning. He made sure of that.

(the less said about the ninety-fifth time, the better. Teenagers are utter imbeciles.)

At this point, he was almost ready.

Unfortunately, he himself was a variable in all this. The Speed Force that once sang through his veins was a soft murmur. The strain of time travel and fighting with his Flash drained nearly every bit of his energy. Sometimes, he simply couldn't do more than hide his face, his eyes glowing in the dark. Most of the time, he did this with no Speed Force at all, with much planning and gnashing of teeth. The loss of the lightning he worked so hard for made those particular instances agonising.

(it still worked, if not as smoothly as he'd wish.)

Now, though, there was just enough. He took a breath, feeling the flow of air into his lungs. He could hear the Speed Force thrumming in his ears, its whispers soothing his mind, grounding him. Closing his eyes, he let the breath go. He opened them, a spark of red lighting his cornea. They were here.

Showtime.

One of the things about being a speedster is that he can see everything, nanosecond by nanosecond. It was effortless, the observation. A dash forward, the bright flash of crimson lightning stunning the couple in the car. The sudden appearance of a man causing her to swerve into the road spikes. In losing control of the car, it flips right into a pole. The immovable object prevails against the driver's door, crushing it inward. She slams against the deadly metal. He could hear her neck snap. As the car falls down from the post he observes the light in Tess Morgan's eyes fade, her last thoughts of fear and panic and I'mdeadI'msosorryHarrissonIloveyou—

It was so easy.

The third time he did this, he laughed. His voice boomed in the silence, the crackling of flames and the disbelieving sobs of an injured man white noise in his ears. In thirteen years, nine months, and twenty two days, he will witness the birth of the Flash. And soon, he will mentor his greatest enemy. Soon, he will see the broken and angry gazes of Caitlin Snow and Cisco Ramon, maybe even have their blood on his hands (again). Soon, he will have his revenge on Barry Allen, his Barry Allen, and escape from this ridiculous time loop.

Soon, he will be home.

On his one-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-fourth try, it doesn't seem so glorious now.

In hindsight, everything became infinitely more difficult when he decides to meet with the couple on his one-thousand-and-five-hundredth time.

(the urge to be sentimental about time travelling should always be quashed with extreme prejudice).

Going to a conference about the existence of tachyons as fourth-year physics enthusiast "Tom Cavanagh" was, in itself, nearly unbearable. He almost regretted stealing this body for a ticket into the premises. Enduring the mindless prattle of overconfident idiots not even close to the truth made him murderous. It was a wonder he didn't kill anyone that night. Yet, he reasoned, a word with the individual he will become had a sense of irony that amused him. Whoever came up with the idea of remaking yourself obviously didn't have (literally) taking bodies in mind. The thought made him genuinely chuckle, if morbidly.

Besides, it's about time he got to know the man he has emulated so thoroughly.

However, just as he was going talk to Harrison Wells, he bumps into Tess Morgan.

(and it all goes downhill from there.)

She wore a midnight black two-piece suit. It complemented her figure while hiding her muffin-top. Her walk was shaky, but adequate, in heels—it was apparent she didn't wear them often. Her complexion was mostly clear, her olive skin fair. Her neck was adorned with a charming gold necklace. She had dyed blonde hair, neatly and tightly wound into a bun, showing the diamond studs in her ears. Her dark blue eyes were sharp, almost cold. Yet, when he looked at her, she radiated with fire and life.

At that point, they haven't even spoken yet.

Once they start talking, he realizes (to his utter lack of shock) she isn't the perfect human being Harrison believes her to be. It's one of the side effects of taking Harrison's body. Eobard takes his DNA; his blood-type; his age; and his memories. Bits and pieces came to him, and over the eternity he's spent in this time loop, he knows exactly what the scientist thought of Miss Morgan.

It was more than he ever wanted to know.

(that was the moment when he began to truly regret coming here)

Harrison once described Tess as whiskey with a touch of honey. A smirk would precede her grin, and closed eyes accompanied her smile. She spoke with an alto-pitched authority and laughed with a slight tenor-toned abandon. At home, she sang jazz tunes in the shower and ate Trix for breakfast instead of the healthier cereals. She hugged the people she loved mercilessly, crushing them him her arms. Whenever she came to her parent's farm, she would cart-wheel down the hill as her husband (fondly and exasperatedly) ran after her. The first time she met Harrison, she nearly clocked him over the head with an oxygen tank. She was stubborn as a mule, yet equally driven to do great things. She had the spark to inspire people. In his timeline, it was because of her that the particle accelerator got finished in 2020, instead of the predicted 2034.

A pity it's never fast enough. She is only human, after all.

(it's a blessing and a curse that she hasn't noticed anything off with this "Tom Cavanagh").

Then, almost abruptly, he is faced with Harrison Wells.

(her husband sees something, however. Something that should not be.)

Eccentric. Brilliant. Compassionate. That was how people knew Dr. Harrison Wells, an MD with a Ph.D in Physics, Mathematics, Engineering, and Chemistry. However, his real genius sprang from his ability to read people, measuring their potential in an instant. Eobard knew this quite well. Why else would he have hired Hartley in the original timeline, despite his prickly qualities? Or Cisco, in spite of his childishness? Even so, it was an experience to be on the receiving end of those pale blue eyes, analyzing him as they shook hands.

He sees through me, Eobard thought. He passes it off as awe to the couple.

(even though he's had practice with expressing emotion, it isn't effortless. Three months later, when Eobard took Harrison's identity, he sees his look of "wonder" and feels that something is off his eyes are too blank his face calculated but he is sad why why who is this—)

They talk of little things, who he was and what they were working on (not the details, of course, as it was still beyond fourth-year physics enthusiast "Tom Cavanagh"). Harrison is brisk and to the point while Miss Morgan actually mulls over his various ideas. It was only when "Tom" ("sheepishly") speaks of his interests, such as a certain particle accelerator, when Harrison visibly brightens. After that, they talk about theories and the like, with Miss Morgan interjecting a comment or scoff every once in a while.

(the worst part was he actually enjoyed speaking to them.)

Just as he was about to leave, Miss Morgan gave him her card, wishing him the best in his studies. After a moment, so did Harrison, who handed his with a warm smile and a word to call him if he ever needed help.

Eobard, genuinely shocked, accepted the cards and thanked them.

(he would always regret coming here. But he couldn't bring himself to forget it.)

On his one-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-fourth car crash, he questioned if this was the right thing. Almost immediately, he rebuked himself.

These people are nothing to you! Nothing!

His hand drifted to the cards in his pocket and took them out, careful to avoid removing his phone by accident. Strange. Why are they here? He remembered Harrison's warm smile; Miss Morgan's openhearted grin.

Getting sentimental again. The voice in his head sighed dramatically. Caring isn't an advantage, Eobard Thawne. It won't get you anywhere.

Placing the cards back in his pocket, he felt the device that would take Wells' body. He started to walk toward the concussed scientist. He was holding his ribs with one hand and checking for his wife's pulse in the other. His normally sharp and pale blue eyes were clouded with pain. He wasn't going to be conscious for long.

(with each step, he remembered Caitlin, Cisco, and Barry. Not his Barry, but the one he trained. Nor his Cisco, dead by his hand, but the one who lives. Not his Caitlin, driven insane with a control over ice that would make Captain Cold blush, but the one who moved on and found her husband. He remembered them, all the variations of them, and he realized—)

Don't you want revenge? Justice? Barry Allen got you here, in this abominable time loop! It's only right that he gets you out!

Justice. He closed his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired. What he has done, over, and over, and over again—how can that be called justice?

Don't you want to go home?

Before he could stop himself, he sighed. What is home?

The thought stopped him in his tracks.

As he loomed over the rapidly fading Wells, he re-evaluated all he's ever believed in. He re-examined his reasoning, his motivations and actions. As unbiased as he could be, he put himself on trial. Memory was his evidence and witness; logic, his jurist; and intellect, his judge. Fragments of a hundred thousand moments flashed in his mind's eye. Good or bad, he went through all of them to answer this question. This stupidly simple, undeniably important question that changed everything.

(in the end, two memories stood out in high relief: the picture of Team Flash, and the minutes before he took Harrison Well's body for the one-thousand-five-hundredth time.)

What is home?

In that moment, he saw Wells hold Miss Morgan's dead hand tightly, as though it would bring her back. He was crying.

(his mask fell off on the one-thousand-five-hundredth car crash. He didn't notice until Harrison physically recoiled at the sight of "Tom Cavanagh." As Eobard took Harrison's body, he was hit by a wave of such raw emotion that it almost choked him.)

The last thing Wells saw was the masked figure taking something out of his pocket.