Memetic. [He snaps his fingers. That's it. That's the one.] That's the word.

[Now for the hard part. There's a little mound of shredded label that's rapidly growing on his desktop, and the rate of his studious picking at it intensifies as he keeps going.]

So. There's this thing. It doesn't have a name, or - [He shivers, unable to suppress the chill racing up his spine.] - or a face. It just...is. And whoever sees it, hears about it, looks at it -

[A hard swallow. The words are sticking in his throat. Max might think this is the right thing, but poking in deep? That's how people get killed.]

Things start to go wrong.