Work Text:
There are no friends in Hell, Vincent.
His screen was so full of grey static he couldn’t see the street beneath his feet. His speakers buzzed with a dizzying, crackling noise that sounded too much like a condescending laugh.
There are no friends in Hell, Vincent.
Distantly he felt liquid dripping from within his clenched fists, blurred neon signs passing him by, an unlucky bastard who got in his way and became an afterthought faintly smelling of burnt flesh.
There are no friends in Hell, Vincent.
Laughter infected his processor with heat and shame, and it felt like his fans had given up, or not tried at all. Laughter and more laughter and a smile full of mocking, stripped of its familiarity, its warmth, its affection.
Affection. He wanted to cackle, maybe he did, he couldn’t hear anything but the growing static in his speakers. Ridiculous, weak, pathetic. A warning message box popped up in what little was left of his vision, something about not enough air in his cooling system.
There are no friends in Hell, Vincent.
I am quite disappointed in you, Vincent.
You’re an embarrassing failure, Vincent.
I didn’t raise a fucking sissy, Vincent.
He retched, his throat closing in on itself. Laughter and static and multiple scornful voices overwhelmed his circuits, his cables transporting liquid fire and unbearable noise through his components. His surroundings disappeared, a beeping invading what long ago were his tympanums and an acute lack of oxygen put his hardware in overdrive. Something terribly human ached in his chest, climbing up and up and forcing its way out. He retched again and felt his lunch and two fingers of whiskey spill from his mouth with suffocating, acrid aggression.
He choked, vomiting bile into his palm and leaning against a wall he barely registered to be there, had no idea where he had ended up. Vincent tried to gasp desperately, to no avail. Air refused his windpipe and his vision darkened as a shutdown message pushed him into dreamless unconsciousness.