There's an instinct tugging him up, up, even as his back aches and itches, pinpricks crawling across and up the back of his neck. He's tired. He's sick and tired of this stupid event and these stupid cookies and these stupid irresistible urges plugged into his head that weren't there before.

He forces open the door at the top of the stairwell one-handed, the other gripping his camera like a lifeline. At least he won't forget. The world's freezing cold and dipped in chocolate and the mirrors are cracking open and someone's hosting a party and he knows he's acting wrong, but at least he won't forget. It'll make sense later, when he edits the entry. No, no, that's wrong, too. Limited network means no more entries means spooling back through the raw footage for anomalies (few and far between) before dumping the whole thing on the server. Replication, backups in triplicate, locked away and hidden somewhere the Mirrors won't know to look.

God, it's cold out. He scratches furiously at his neck as several flimsy tubes of translucent something fall away, leaving something soft and downy and what the hell's happening to him?

There's someone else up here with him. He doesn't recognize the shape of the silhouette.