[ic] murder case files.
[the following is a stack of papers that are stapled together as neatly as possible and sorted into three different file folders.]
--
From Elizabeth Sayre's notes, scattered in December 2006:
Ms. Sayre in regards to the murderer and the crime at hand
Blood was everywhere. I could not stand it. I will continue not to stand it. Death by disembowelment is only deserved by absolute fiends.
The idea that Stephan is still alive is impossible. I saw him -- I saw the blood. I saw the remains. He is not here.
I feel so very stupid for wanting to believe otherwise.
He mentioned this facility would be created a short time from now, but that is impossible.
The only thing left is to reconstruct the facility the murderer described, breed it to fruition, and then find the culprit. It's insane, but with the context in mind, I believe in what I must perform.
Will any of the officers be able to understand? I certainly don't. These feelings are ludicrous and unwelcome, diary.
Still, I am undeterred. My resolve is absolute -- this facility will be built, whether the government supports it or not.
It no longer makes sense to me; there is no child here that fits the description or mental instability of the killer. Was it all a lie? Am I going mad?
Am I the reason? Am I the reason behind everything, and this establishment, and his death?
Ms. Sayre on this particular "camp"
My reasons are even unknown to our investors. I realize that I should feel an amount of guilt in this, but those men deserved to be robbed blind.
Occasionally, I worry if this is the appropriate venue. Would it have been a better policy to simply execute all new arrivals, rather than keep them for the alloted time?
Would a small population have been easier to enforce as well? It would be more simple to properly confine the control groups, if that was the case.
And would I be justified in killing the ones that present resistance, rather than continue to tolerate their unnecessary existence at camp? Their arguments are tedious and repititive.
The rampant homosexuality between the children here is -- disconcerting. I admit to being surprised. Jokingly, my brother suggested that there may be "something in the water," but I am becoming hardpressed to refute that.
No, really. I have come to the conclusion that there is something in the water, because the percentage of homosexuality here is ridiculous. Was this Father's doing? ... could Father have truly been that unstable to bring about such a thing?
The experimentations have been going well, against all reason and doubt. The control groups remain difficult to secure, but the reactions continue to be positive. I believe some of the chemical research will even be finalized by December, 2005.
If the research is ever completed, I think I will surprise myself and mourn when I will need authorize the removal of these creatures. Last night, my brother found a pair making a nest inside his shoes using sanitary supplies; thus he took it upon himself to ban tampons from the grounds.
Some of these children are no longer of use to me, but their removal would bring about more complications. I need to keep them busy, somehow, and the continuation of my genetic experiments has been bothering me for some time.
Perhaps the children could help? Though some part of my shattered morality is sickened by the thought.
The amount of effort is becoming a frustration. Are these children that unable to handle the simplest of tasks? How difficult is it for this generation to think?
I find myself wanting to drown them. Shuffling them off from this plane of existence would bring me great joy, I think.
I can't let these children die. I can't. I can't. Father, there is a way.
Ms. Sayre on her past: her father, her brother, "Charles," and Stephan Debussey
Dear Diary,
I think I've fallen in love with the twit.
I'm still unsure why I was able to tolerate Stephan, much less be able to consciously admit an attraction to him that went beyond school girl fantasies, not that I continued to experience such daydreams by that age.
It's degrading, disgusting, disconcerting, and leaves me demanding for more. Juvenile though it is, I will never grow tired of the look on his face when confronted with corderoys.
I dreamed of destroying the empire again last night. Stephan blamed it on "too many cookies," and so I continue to think him mad.
Stephan thinks perusing my journal is hilarious. I believe I may have security remove both him and his family from the manor in revenge, diary.
How can he stand it? How is he able to look a man in the eye and go through with it, regardless of the amount of human emotion that he must surely see? Killing is reprehensible, Father. I cannot believe what you have become.
Father advises me to use my fairer sex as an advantage, but if the business world were that simple, Mother would not have had such a difficult time of it.
It's been three days. I've called Father, his sister... if Stephan lost the tickets, I may murder him before the others have the chance.
In short, my brother now knows that I have stockpiled enough for us to escape the country and live in America. There, I will again resume my research.
Apparently the undead prefer brains. It was here that Stephan finally proved himself useful, much to his chagrin.
I will never marry Charles.
I have not been made a victim. Part of me appreciates Stephan's attempts to remove Charles' eyes, but it was unnecessary; Father wished for me to display my business assets, so I did.
*I think it will take the workers some time to remove the all traces of blood. Tonight, Stephan kissed me.
*Once. It was one time, and it will never happen again. I do not believe murder is a solution.
"My rocket to the moon." Stephan is insane; because I tolerate him, does that make me unstable as well?
He says he loves me -- he's always said that he loves me -- but more and more I find myself trusting in those words to a powerful extent. Stephan frightens me.
I love him, I love him. I hate him, I hate him. If he quotes another terrible horror movie at me, it will be easy to reach a decision.
I haven't been sleeping. Finals are approaching at the university and I find myself unable to give a flying damn. Stephan is missing; do they not understand what this means?
I have decided to hate myself. A valiable solution, I think.
Do I miss him? Of course I miss him. I can't -- the feeling of being alone is unbearable, these past few months.
Do you believe in miracles, diary? Neither do I.
Ms. Sayre on ...?
"For thirteen years," I was told, "you drove me to madness." Whether that was the truth will haunt me for years to come.
Brother's attempts to comfort me -- I will do him the service of not recording them and his subsequent punishment. It was not because I was worried for their sake, but for Stephan's. Without the research reaching fruition, these eight years will have been a waste.
The debts are rising. I am unsure where to turn. I feel like I am losing my grasp on reality, and am dragging down the others with me.
The government wishes to close the facility down.
--
Snippets of Elizabeth Sayre's posts to the Network:
May 15, 2005 [http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/57128.html]
Children,
The first in the series of photos you will be given.
Part of my fiancé, Stephan, was found in these woods. They found his leg by that log.
He was a blond. Tall, but not immediately striking. I always thought I could bring him back with enough technology.
Obviously not. I hate children.
Make of it what you will.
June 19th, 2005 [http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/200319.html]
Until this Saturday, the only rations you will receive are the occasional dried jerky and water. You may thank Camper #018: Lu Xun, "styled Boyan," for that.
My power is absolute here. It would do well for no one to ever forget that. I would and will sink to disgusting levels in order to impart upon you that I mean malicious business; the only man I ever cared for is dead and is beyond caring what depths I go to for science and justice, so I do not particularly care what kind of person I reveal myself to be. All that will ever matter me now is finding his murderer. Think what you will about that.
In the meantime, enjoy your starvation. Carlos is currenly in my keeping, so I doubt he'll be of much aid to you from his cell.
July 23rd, 2005 [http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/435799.html]
I received some very interesting mail this morning, children. As I ate my eggs Benedict - instant Hollandaise sauce is the worst thing to have ever happened to breakfast, excusing your toasted "pastries" - and listened to the wail of my newest subject, I found my good attitude waning as I opened both envelopes. The contents annoyed me, deeply. Two separate parties have come forward with "issues" I can only assume they believed that I would find pertinent and worrying. Regardless, I am forced to address them.
1. Due to pressure from this camp's sponsors and several government inquiries, actual adult supervision has become a necessary compromise. Soon, children, the smallest amount of counselors possibly will be with you. Ignore them, kill them, I don't care.
July 28th, 2005 [http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/481074.html]
Counselors, you have five minutes to claim your respective offices. Set up in trees for all I care; I'm not responsible for any of you.
There will also be a meeting scheduled tomorrow night for the purpose of conferencing with your fellow supervisors, a phrase which here means "your teaching goals mean nothing to this administration", or "eat shit".
October 4th, 2005 [http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/1136300.html]
The month of October will proceed as planned. Despite the arrival of autumn, your imprisonment will not be affected. Know that, regardless of the season, you will remain here.
That is all, children.
[attached to the last page of this file is a post-it note, with a few words and URLs scribbled onto it hastily:
"detective posted stuff to network:
http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/423248.html
http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/559685.html
http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/566875.html
ask hasegawa re: lmnfiles. data on comm?"]
--
Transcript of the channelling of Mr. Stephan Debussey
"Spiritual channeling is a method of speaking to the dead; the Fey family is purportedly rather skilled at this, although Misty Fey's abilities were called into question when a spiritual medium was used in a case in 2001. Nevertheless, the veracity of this ability cannot be denied here, although it is a technique used to summon only the dead. How it managed to do otherwise is a matter for those with the knowledge of how it works and the intricacies to investigate further. For now, we are operating under the assumption that the barrier and the properties of the camp itself led to this.
The following are transcriptions of the recording of Mr. Debussey's session. -- M.E."
[February 2nd, 7:40 PM]
Mr. Debussey: I DON'T EVEN GET HOOTERS? Then what the hell is the point of being summoned by a girl! I have just been viciously denied.
Wright: ......... Mr. Debussey?
Edgeworth: ...
Mr. Debussey: ... not that you'd probably care about a trial run of tits, would you, Mr. Cravat.
Edgeworth: The spirit medium's, er, cleavage is not the issue at hand, Mr. Debussey.
Mr. Debussey: Zen what iz dee issue, love?
Edgeworth: Your murder.
Mr. Debussey: Can't hear you over the sound of my stomach.
Edgeworth: ... Mr. Debussey.
Mr. Debussey: It's a valid complaint. Summoning takes a lot out of the body, you know?
Edgeworth: I was under the impression that spirits can't get hungry. If you will. Who killed you and how did they manage it, Mr. Debussey?
Mr. Debussey: The girl is, love. I can sense it. And guessing from the questions I'm getting, you want me to stick around for a while, right? So pump us full of cabbage. Or jello. Do you have jello? I miss jello.
Edgeworth: ... Marshall, do you have anything on hand?
Marshall: Reckon I can spare a flask of gatorade and a possum cake, pardner.
Edgeworth: If you would. Mr. Debussey, your, um, provisions will be arriving shortly.
Mr. Debussey: Why thank you, gentlemen. Though I don't think I'll be touching something called possum cake with a ten foot pole.
Edgeworth: Now, would you answer the question?
Mr. Debussey: There was a question?
Edgeworth: Who murdered you?
Mr. Debussey: ABOUT THAT. I know of no such thing.
Edgeworth: One year and nine months ago, Ms. Elizabeth Sayre started this encampment and brought children in approximately once a month, claiming that they were all suspects in the case regarding the murder of her fiance, Mr. Stephan Debussey. Does any of that sound familiar to you?
Mr. Debussey: No. It -- she's all right? Say the name again.
Edgeworth: Ms. Elizabeth Sayre, the current director of Camp Fuck You Die.
Mr. Debussey: ... I'm relieved. A lot. Thank you, Mr. Cravat.
Edgeworth: Mr. Debussey, what is going on? You make it sound as though Ms. Sayre was the one who was murdered, not you.
Mr. Debussey: I was deathly worried that she would be. Is she still as beautiful as ever? I bet she's even prettier now than she was those years ago.
Edgeworth: As far as we know, she's fine. And holding over two hundred and seventy children responsible for your death. Mr. Debussey, please. We need to know the facts behind it. How were you killed?
Mr. Debussey: ... all right, I can borrow something from a zombie movie, but I'm not actually dead, so it's going to all be untrue.
Edgeworth: --what
Mr. Debussey: What?
Edgeworth: ... You're not dead?
Mr. Debussey: ... is that, uh. Problematic?
Edgeworth: Ms. Sayre herself wrote in her notes that she saw you dead. I believe her exact words were-- "The idea that Stephan is still alive is impossible. I saw him -- I saw the blood. I saw the remains. He is not here."
Mr. Debussey: ... and then she has the nerve to claim that she never thinks of how much I love her.
Edgeworth: Mr. Debussey, there's an entire compilation of notes from Ms. Sayre regarding your murder, this camp, and other events and people surrounding it, such as her father, some man named "Charles", and the person she refers to as your murderer. Are you saying that there was, in fact, no murder?
Mr. Debussey: No. Unless she thinks there was one, and in that case... we're not telling her otherwise.
Edgeworth: If she is confused, then the truth needs to come out, Mr. Debussey.
Mr. Debussey: It can't.
Edgeworth: Why not?
Mr. Debussey: Mostly because I said so. That, and it'll fuck everything up for me.
Edgeworth: You want to supress the truth from Ms. Sayre, a woman who clearly cares a great deal about you, because it would "fuck everything up" for you. Mr. Debussey, I have another question for you, then.
Mr. Debussey: No promises that I'll want to answer it.
Edgeworth: There was a detective here over a year ago who went by the name of L. Over the summer of 2005, he uncovered and shared a good deal of information, including reports regarding a string of misfortunes that plagued the Debussey family over the course of twelve years. Would the Sayre family happen to have anything to do with that?
Mr. Debussey: ... I made a promise not to directly say anything about that to anyone, ever. For the rest of my life. But try asking that other woman.
Edgeworth: What other woman?
Mr. Debussey: The one whose breasts could put a man on the moon, just like in that one movie. You ever see Women Climb To Mars? Classic film.
Edgeworth: ... Of course. One other thing. Who was Charles?
Mr. Debussey: ... first! You tell me if there were notes on that.
Edgeworth: "I will never marry Charles." ... "I have not been made a victim. Part of me appreciates Stephan's attempts to remove Charles' eyes, but it was unnecessary; Father wished for me to display my business assets, so I did."
Mr. Debussey: ... I can't believe she wrote that down. She told me -- she wanted to marry that insufferable piece of shit, just for the Daddy. My girl is the greatest woman in the world, isn't she? Even then she knew what she really wanted.
Edgeworth: That remains to be seen. One more thing. Is Mr. Sayre still alive, or can you not even answer that?
Mr. Debussey: ... well, that was in the papers, so I think it's fair ground. He was burned alive.
Edgeworth: The manor.
Mr. Debussey: It lit up like Chinese new year.
Edgeworth: I take it you and Ms. Sayre did not care for him all that much.
Mr. Debussey: No. The only person that would find that son of a bitch bearable is Hitler. Or Hitler-chan, if you know the movie I'm referencing.
Wright: How did you meet Miss Sayre?
Mr. Debussey: ... my family was sent to work at her house through the will of Monseiur Sayre. I was immediately enchanted, and without a doubt, it was love at first sight. ♥
Wright: So you were her servant?
Mr. Debussey: Of course not! That girl wanted to do her own laundry by the age of eight.
Wright: R-right, your family just helped out hers.
Mr. Debussey: You... could say that. Yeah. We helped in a lot of ways.
Fey: Please, tell us why Ms. Sayre is doing this!
Mr. Debussey: Why is the sky blue? I've have no idea. Why did her father start all this? Hell if I know. End of story, sorry.
Fey: Her father?
Mr. Debussey: -- you didn't hear that.
Fey: ...
Asuna: --you really didn't die? You're sure?
Mr. Debussey: Positive. Cross my heart and hope not to die.
Asuna: That's great! For you obviously and--for us too, right? Can't we go home?
Mr. Debussey: Not... yet.
Asuna: But there's nothing to solve!
Edgeworth: ... On the contrary.
Asuna: Mr. Edgeworth, what's going on?
Edgeworth: That detective, L, stated it better than anyone could: we are looking for a plot at this point, not a murderer. Why is it that we cannot tell Ms. Sayre the truth behind this so-called murder, Asuna? There is a connection between the Sayre and the Debussey lines. There is a mystery regarding the Sayre patriach, as well as this very camp.
Asuna: So . . . he's not dead, but she needs to think he is? But what could happen if she found out? Is it something she'd do to us, or something someone else would do to her?
Edgeworth: I'll let you look through my notes in a bit -- there's some information regarding the Sayre and the Debussey lines, and a series of misfortunes that came upon the Debussey family. My best guess is that if Ms. Sayre knew that Mr. Debussey were alive, his life would be in jeopardy.
Mr. Debussey: Her life.
Edgeworth: Hers?
Mr. Debussey: Exactly. So shut up about it until I say so, if you don't mind, Monsieur Cravat.
Edgeworth: ...
Edgeworth: ... mm. Thank you, Mr. Debussey. This has been somewhat informative.
Mr. Debussey: It has been, hasn't it? I think I know what my next stop will be.
Edgeworth: Do you?
Mr. Debussey: ... I have to get a few things done first to make it... possible. You know. Destroy a few organizations, manhandle some brutes, yell gibberish at the mafia...
Edgeworth: ... What the hell are your families involved with?
Mr. Debussey: It's a long list. See you in a few months!
[attached to the end of the transcript is another post-it note with more scribbling:
"camp notified:
http://community.livejournal.com/campfuckudie/3384744.html"]