[ This time, he feels like he's choking. Bells breathes in hard once he's out of his tube, standing there nice and slick and naked without any shame whatsoever. Maybe he's had a bad dream. He doesn't remember, not really, but he's stumbling forward through the other bodies and deeper in rather than toward the showers, the lockers. The confused people who'd just arrived. Always the same, never any different with the exception of this.

The disorientation fades a little at least, as he walks, and he drags his hand along some of the other tubes, staring at them blankly. Bells can't seem to get his focus, numb, and by the time he reaches the one particular grav couch he'd been looking for-- He stops, looks and turns around to double-check that he hadn't missed anything. There's no sign of a body, no exit or slime trailing off in the opposite direction with footprints. There's nothing.

He can't breathe, chest tight. ]

No, no, no. Fuck. [ His fingers slip and press to the window, leaving an imprint where there'd been a bloody one months before. In one frighteningly blank moment, Bells feels something break, and his chest hurts. It's wrong. It's so fucking wrong. ] You said you wouldn't. You said—

[ His voice breaks, doesn't sound like his, and something cracks; it's the crush of his knuckles against the glass. He can feel it just like he feels the pain. Lor's gone. ]

[ He's on auto by the time he makes it out of the showers and through his locker, ignoring his clothes and tugging on the jumpsuit. Bells doesn't mind half of the people around him, bumping into several of them without so much as an apology as he takes the lifts up and wanders through the halls. He still can't focus, doesn't want to think.

This hurts so much more than losing the friends he's made here when they'd disappeared. This hurts more than finding out some of them had been lost. It hurts almost as much as nearly losing Kurt. It hurts. hurtshurtshurtshurts

When Bells stops, he's staring into one of the vacant kitchens up on some level he isn't too familiar with. Not that it matters. The last conversation he'd had with Lor-- He steps inside and sorts through the drawers, hands shaking a little when he finds a knife in one of them. It's partially dull, barely knicking his thumb when he runs it along the edge. Their last talk, between the arguments and barely seeing each other, had been Lor telling him he needed to take care of himself, get a haircut. His knuckles throb when he grips the edge of it, tight tight tight until the pain is too real to ignore.

He grips a few strands of damp blond and slices through it with his eyes closed. It's getting too long anyway. He doesn't need it. He doesn't need anyone. ]