Rebecca is six. She lives with her parents in a cheerless terraced house on East-side 27, Blue District C. Rebecca is an only child and her parents offer her little time or affection. She wishes that she had a brother or sister to keep her company, especially at night. Her parents quarrel most of the time and sleep in separate beds. If only she had a friend; it would make little Rebecca so happy.
   It is the early hours of the morning when Timothy’s chi-form enters Rebecca’s bedroom. For several minutes it skulks in a corner staring at Rebecca’s delicate body as it tosses and turns beneath a pink flowery duvet. And then abruptly it moves towards the bed.
   Rebecca is sleeping fitfully when Timothy’s chi-form invades her body.
   “Hello Rebecca, what game shall we play?”


The Journal of Professor Phillip Robertson.
January 6^th
I cannot help but question the ethical aspects of our experimentation upon these people, yet I am reminded of words spoken many years ago by my university professor. He had just shown us the footage of Topsy the elephant being put down by electrocution; an event filmed by Thomas Edison and shown to the general public. It was 1903, and 460 grams of potassium cyanide and 6,600-volts of alternating current had ended the life of the unfortunate beast. It is a truly harrowing piece of cinematography. At the end of the film, professor Dalglish switched off the projector and turned to face the students assembled in the auditorium. He reminded us that the execution of Topsy had taken place thirteen years after the first execution of a human by the same means, yet it is the image of Topsy that, even to this day, takes centre stage. Gentlemen, he said, you can but hope that you will one day be remembered for producing something the like of which has not been witnessed before. You can but hope that you, too, will one day create your very own Topsy execution.


   Beneath the meagre slither of a moon, a down-and-out shuffles along a gravel path. “Oh, how I wish it was morning, the blue skies and fluffy white clouds, the pretty flowers and sounds of children‘s laughter. The world is so beautiful in the daytime it makes me glad to be alive. Good evening Mister Bat. And good evening to you Mister Owl. To-wit-to-woo, how do you do?”
   The old vagrant doffs his dog-eared Pork Pie and ambles towards a vacant park bench.


The Journal of Professor Phillip Robertson.
February 27^th
The levels of Omicron-29 that an albino’s epidermis can absorb and harness is staggering, and I cannot help but wonder if the albinoid is not God’s perfect creation, that if, perhaps, when He created Adam and Eve, it was in this purist of forms, in unadulterated flesh that lends allegiance to neither race nor creed.


   WATCHING     -      WANTING      -      FANTASISING      -      SLAVERING.
   "…ya ain't seen nothing’ till your down on a muffin…"
   For the past forty-five minutes, Dave Williams has sat alone at a corner table in the Pink Flamingo nursing a lukewarm beer. He’s fixated on a redhead who’s sitting at the end of the bar with two blondes and a brunette. Dave’s fantasising about all the things he could do with her but knows he’ll never find the courage to make an approach.
   "…singin’ hey diddle-diddle with your kitty in the middle of the swing…"
   Dave takes a sip of his beer and fantasises about all the things he’ll do with her, tonight, in his dreams.
   "…three young ladies in the school gym locker when I noticed they was lookin' at me…"
   Suddenly, Dave feels an icy hand claw its way into his brain and the realisation dawns that he doesn’t know where he is or who he is. He knows only one thing, LUST.
   “Okay, stud, you want a piece of this skirt you gotta walk the walk and talk the bullshit.”
   “Huh!”
   “Don’t you huh me, Davey boy, cos I’m the main man. Timmy here is gonna get you a piece of action with the red meat.”
   Dave’s body begins to tremble, his mind searching for answers. “Huh!”
   “Not much of a talker, aye? Okay, Romeo, it’s probably for the best if you just sit back and let me do the talking. You see the ice bucket?”
   “Erm, yes.”
   “Good. Take a piece of ice and walk over to where she’s sitting. Don’t rush things you obsequious little shit, keep it casual. Good, that‘s better. Now wait till she looks up. That’s it, drop the ice on the floor. Now stamp on it hard and repeat after me…”
   “…now that I’ve broken the ice, how about you tell me your name and let me buy you and your friends a drink?”
   "…walk this way, talk this way, just give me some head."


The Journal of Professor Phillip Robertson.
May 13^th
As with all of our previous test subjects, the increased dosage of Tamodril is having a devastating effect on Timothy’s psyche. The drugs have subverted his once charming, almost childlike personality, leaving him devoid of emotions and in an almost catatonic state. However, the forced regression experiments have seen some quite startling results and I am confident that Timothy’s precognitive powers will start to develop in the very near future. I can only hope that, this time, our subject survives long enough to be put to some good use.


Before the young boy’s eyes, a myriad of colours swirl on a 21” monitor. He is oblivious to the chi-form hovering behind his right shoulder.
   “Hello M-mickey. Um, w-what are you d-doing?”
   “Wh -! Oh, its you. Hello Tim. I’m just playing this new game.”
   “Cool! Um, w-what sort of g-game is it?”
   Michael Brown reaches for a salad bowl full of potato chips. “It’s called Virtual Reality World VI. You design your own character, um, you know, someone really cool, and then you can go to all the places you’ve always dreamed of going to in real life.”
   “Wow! C-can I have a g-go?”
   He pulls the ring on another cola. “Yeah, that’d be neat. Ever since mum bought it for me I’ve been wanting someone to play it with.”
   “Oh wow! Th-this is soooo c-cool. Um, Mickey…”
   “Yeah, Tim?”
   “Are we g-geeks or c-couch p-p-potatoes?”
   “We’re lonely, Tim… we’re lonely.”


The Journal of Professor Phillip Robertson.
June 4^th
I become increasingly concerned about Victor’s motives in funding our research. He appears far too concerned with the idea of predicting market prices than any long term benefits for the human race. The ability to predict and thereby prevent a murder, or to be on hand with medical aid prior to a natural disaster, could save hundreds, possibly thousands of lives.


   “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, bake me a cake as fast as you can. Pat it and… what’s your name?”
   “I already told you, it’s Timothy.”
   “Oh yes, I forgot. I am so happy that you came to stay with me, Timothy. I have to sleep on my own and I don’t like the dark. ”
   “Well, I think that being scared of the dark is just silly. I’m not scared of anything.”
   “I get scared of the monsters that live under my bed.”
   “There aren’t any monsters under your bed, Rebecca. And anyway, you’d do better to fear the monster that live inside your head.”
   “But you live inside my head and you’re not a monster.”
   “No, Rebecca, I’m not. I’m just Timothy, your invisible friend. Now, what game shall we play next?”