He's already drunk. He's dressed once again in his gang colors and armed to the teeth. He smells like leather, blood, sweat, and fear. Cisco isn't sure what he's afraid of the most. Someone finding out what Thawne had done, or him remembering more of it. But it doesn't matter really; it's been less than twenty-four hours, and he's already getting used to the constant fear. The cuts on his arms itch and he scratches at them through the thick, leather jacket. He needs to get into his position.

It's not even dark yet, and already Cisco had his first conflict to resolve. A college student on her way back to her dorm after a date with a man she thought she had known well. Met at a club get-together, they had a few laughs and exchanged numbers. They had been friends for a few weeks, and he had drugged her drink while she was in the restroom. Cisco heard the stumbling footfalls of someone supporting the weight of another person. 'Bingo,' he thought, preparing to make his move and twirling the baseball bat in his hand. The moment he heard the key in the lock he stepped out of the small alcove he was hiding in, and followed the man and his intended victim inside, closing the door behind them.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing, hmm?" His voice was perfectly disguised by The Confounder, and he watched as the man stepped away from the drugged girl. "Drugging her drink? Not very nice." With every step forward Cisco took, the man took one back until he stumbled against the wall.

"Who are you?!" The attempted assaulter was panicking, eyes darting around the room seeking out any sort of weapon he could use.

"I'm just a guy who doesn't approve of what scum like you, thinks they have a right to do." Cisco swung back the bat, preparing for the first hit. "Now, batter up bastard!" He slammed the bat against the man's jaw with a loud *CRACK*

"STRIKE ONE!" Again he swung the bat, following it with a swift kick in the ribs.

"STRIKE TWO!" Cisco grabbed the man's collar and slammed him against the wall.

"Need another one?" he asked, hefting the bat, wanting to do it, wanting to cause destruction and chaos. God, he wanted to do it. The man shook his head frantically, signaling his surrender.

"No? Okay then." He quickly rammed his fist hard into the man's forehead, a strong rabbit-punch rendering him unconscious. A zip-tie was pulled from a pouch on his belt and wrapped around the criminals wrists. He stepped over to the drugged girl and checked her pulse. Steady, but just a bit slow, sluggish almost, but not dangerously so. She'll be fine. Walking back over to the attempted rapist, he took out the man's cell phone and dialed 911. Once the dispatch picked up he said simply, "send an ambulance," and set the phone on the ground next to the drugged girl.

Time to go to the next place.

A teenage girl held at knife point in the alley behind one of the dozens of upscale, trendy, coffee shops and boutiques. The man reeked of sweat and alcohol, anonymity the only message he sent with his appearance. Cisco stepped up behind him and pushed the barrel of the shotgun between his shoulder blades.

"You mind stepping away?" Cisco snarled, tightening his grip on the trigger. "I do believe the young lady told you 'no.'"

The man dropped the knife and tried to spin around to grab the shotgun, only to be met with Ciscos' gloved fist in his face, smashing bone and teeth, blood flying in the air. Cisco leveled the gun at the man's head. "Don't think I won't do it." He turned to face the teenaged girl. "Call the cops, I'll make sure he doesn't leave." He stared out from behind the goggles, making sure the girl wouldn't see what he had planned, she had seen enough violence for one night. Enough for a lifetime. The moment she was out of sight, Cisco slammed the stock of the sawed-off shotgun against the man's temple, knocking him out and sending him to the ground in a twitching heap. A zip-tie was pulled from one of the many pouches oh his belt and was cinched tight around the criminals wrists. Lucky for him Cisco didn't feel like cleaning blood off his goggles. Not yet anyway. Not tonight.

Time to move on to the next.

And the next.

And the next.

He drags himself home long after the rising of the sun, body bruised and aching, muscles sore in ways they hadn't been for so long. Cisco had stopped by the liquor store, cheap whiskey, tequila, rum and vodka carried home in a paper bag. The store clerk had been too scared by the appearance of a leather and blood covered vigilante to even ask if he needed help. He might be in pain, but the city is a little bit safer now. It's worth his suffering if he can keep people from feeling helpless and afraid. He checks his stock of bullets and shotgun shells, he should have enough to close out the next two weeks.

When he gets back, he showers until the water runs cold as ice and until his own blood runs down the drain, but he doesn't sleep. He can't.

He doesn't go to work in the morning, he just stays home, drinking until it's time for him to go back out and help people. He's been awake for so long, only two days, he's certain he can go for longer. Everything is a strange haze of alcohol and caffeine, nothing really seemed real at this point. The only person he's talked to lately is the liquor store attendant, and they were too frightened by the blood spatters to be a good conversationalist. No matter, he only needed them to sell him more alcohol, not to be a friend.

He goes out, he fights, he helps people, he goes back home and drinks until he forgets who and where he is. Drinks until he can't remember why he started all of this. His clothes all smelled like blood and booze, and every time he leaves his apartment he prepared himself to not make it back alive. Every time he comes back he takes the sharpened edge of a blade to his skin. Bloody bandages cover both of his arms, his problem is quickly getting out of control, he can't handle it anymore. He wishes he could control himself, wishes he could stop. But he can't stop, if he stops then he stops feeling. Even if all he feels is pain, he'd rather die than stop feeling again.

0 Texts, 0 Missed Calls and 0 E-Mails.

A new list of times and places. He goes out, comes back, doesn't sleep, skips work, then he drinks until it all slips away. No one comes looking for him and he's not sure he wants them to. More and more cuts litter his arms, heavy bags form under his eyes. He loses weight. His entire body aches, a deep ache settling down in his bones. Cisco's almost certain that if he sleeps now he won't wake back up. He's not sure if he even cares.

Repeat.

Another list, more crossed out places and times. Come back after the sunrise once again, and this time there's a plastic bag full of primed needles in his pocket, the illicit contents promising sweet silence from the constant noise in his mind. Cisco had stopped and hogtied a Vertigo dealer on the south side of the city, and he's not sure why he took the drugs with him, he's not going to use them, he just knew that he needed them. He forgot why he needed them. Later that night he holds the needle tight against his skin and wonders why he doesn't push it down and sink into the emptiness the drug promises. He longs for nothing more than to forget for a little while. But he can't. Not yet. And so he drinks more until he's numb to the world around him. He came so close to killing people, but he managed to hold himself back. He's not sure if he should.

He'd been hallucinating lately, seeing things he knew couldn't be there. Most of it had been innocuous, nothing that couldn't be ignored. Some of it was too much. There was one thing he never wanted to see and something he couldn't keep out of his head.

He'd seen Thawne. He knows he isn't really there, but every time he sees him he almost runs off in panic. Cisco drinks more whiskey, grimacing at the taste. It's cheap and gets the job done. The room is hazy, but he would do just about anything to keep him from seeing him again.

0 Texts, 0 Missed Calls and 0 E-Mails.

More locations and times. This world is garbage. Tweakers in the back alleys shaking down not-so-innocent citizens to pay for their filthy habits. Methheads and junkies, there's a new drug lord in town. just some guy. Calls himself Snowflame. Colombian coke dealer getting into the Vertigo business, Cisco has seen what their 'improved' product does to people. It's sickening, empty husks who would do anything just to get high. He needs to find this guy and get him off the streets. Doesn't even matter if the guy lives through it. Doesn't quite matter to him if neither of them lives through it.

Cisco sheds his jacket as he walks through the apartment, dropping the leather into a wet, bloody, pile on the floor. Shotgun and pistol dropped onto the couch, baseball bat on the chair. Fuck it, nobody would notice if he was gone. They don't give a fuck about what he's doing. No matter what he does to help, the filth of the criminal class reaches back up with dirty talons and rotten fangs. This city doesn't care, for every scumbag he takes off the streets there's four more jumping up to replace them. He needs a break. Anything to forget what this world is really about.

Vertigo. He needs the sweet promise of emptiness only Vertigo can supply. Cisco rushes into the kitchen and slams open the fridge door, grabbing a double needled syringe. It's already primed and ready to go. He wraps his upper arm with his belt and tapped the vein in his elbow once, twice, the vein visible now. Twin needles slip beneath the skin, always so much easier than he could ever expect. There's a rush of adrenaline at the small twinge of pain, then the surge of endorphins and serotonin as the drug flows through his system. Fuck, it had been so long since he had felt like this. It's not something you can easily forget. Cisco let himself slide down to the floor and slumped against the counter as he watched the world fade out into a haze of white nothingness. The used needle tumbles out of his hand, hitting the floor and the glass chamber shattering. Cisco doesn't care about the mess, why should he? He feels…. God, the drug feels so fuckin good. He's still awake, but his mind feels like it's been shut off. No vibes. No memories floating up out of the blue. It's so quiet. So serene. It's like flying, drifting away with pure weightlessness. But he can't depend on the drug, he knows that. But just once. Just this one time…

0 Texts, 0 Missed Calls and 0 E-Mails.

Repeat again, and again, and again, and again...