Disco Elysium

Every school of thought and government has failed in this city -- but I love it nonetheless.

Disco Elysium is a 2019 role-playing game where players assume the role of an amnesiac, alcoholic detective who must solve a murder in the war-torn, retro-futuristic fantasy city of Revachol. The game is notable for its intricate dialogue, psychologically-driven gameplay and skill system, and themes of drug abuse and politics.

What kind of cop are you? (taglines)

The narrator

[On Communism] You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few million eggs.
This guy's your buddy-buddy. You feel it immediately: you belong to an organization. A fraternity. Of drunks.
You need to spread that deregulation gospel to the people. Tell them about that foreign fare tax. Preach that 98% gross burden. Preach it, preacher man! Set the brothas free. Taxes are racist.
Moralists don't really have beliefs. Sometimes they stumble on one, like on a child's toy left on the carpet. The toy must be put away immediately. And the child reprimanded. Centrism isn't change -- not even incremental change. It is control. Over yourself and the world. Exercise it. Look up at the sky, at the dark shapes of Coalition airships hanging there. Ask yourself: is there something sinister in moralism? And then answer: no. God is in his heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.
The colour of moralism is blue. The official motto of the Moralintern, or Moralist International, is: 'A blue forget-me-not; a piece of the grey sky'. Unofficial: 'For a moment, there was hope'
Knowledge like that isn't just obscure; it's unknowable. Dangerous theoretical facts like that are probably protected under the Coalition Government's Articles of Dominion, Title XIV, Article 7c. While an expert might be able to suss it out on their own, a layman like you has no hope.
From crystal to smoke, an expression describing the rigid structures of capitalism turning to smoke under communism.
Even by the standard of the Filippian kings, Old Sumptuous Filippe was known for his profligacy. […] he blew through the whole national treasury, starting the decline of one of the penultimate century's greatest superpowers: the Suzerain of Revachol. His own maladministration foreshadowed the fall of the monarchy during the Antecentennial Revolution, an end to his family line and the monarchy on the Insulindian isola. […] Stories have it that he had his bedroom converted into a treasure chamber where he stored unfathomable wealth: krugerrands, bars of gold, ornate weaponry, armour, and various chalices. He called it the Sol Aurum. It was obscene. There were whispers he slept on a huge pile of gold-dipped feathers like some obese dragon, instead of a bed like a normal person.
Everything is calm in the eye of the racestorm. Your mind is lucid and bright. The mindbending phylogenetics appear more distant and, to be fair, a little ridiculous. The great Race Mystery has cleared up.
You cannot open all the doors. You have to integrate this into your character. Some doors will forever remain closed. Even if every single other door will open at one time or another, maybe to a key, or maybe to some sort of tool meant for opening doors... But this one will never accede to such commands. A realization crucial to personal growth. Crucial.
Your shit is apart, and it's rather unbecoming of a cop and a human being. It's supposed to be the opposite of that: together. Compressed in a small area. To achieve a solid level of shit-compression, squeeze your butt-cheeks together for 30 minutes. Do something similar with the two hemispheres of your brain. Talk to people, maybe that will help.
Bizarre scientific news from Revachol West today, where a police officer's shit has been observed at a pressure of around 495 giga-decimals. These metallic hydrogen levels of shit-togetherness were thought to exist only at the center of collapsing stars, not law officials. It remains to be seen how long the shit-singularity lasts.
Maybe you should stop obsessing about your own -- and other people's -- sexuality? Feels like it’s about time to do that. You’ve thought about this for eight hours?! Not only should you stop, you should tell Kim you've stopped obsessing about other people's sexuality too. I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Unless you already got him killed because you were obsessing about your sexuality. (There’s no way of telling from within your brain, but for your own sake: please say you didn’t.)
Nudity is shameful. No officer of the law should ever be caught sans pantalones.
Yeah, it's another copotype -- the worst one. The most savage and brutal. The Art Cop. Nothing is good enough for him. Everything is shit. You have to employ an armada of adjectives to depict and demean the mediocrity of the works and visual institutions around you. Really flex that critical muscle. Until the vocabulary for PUNISHING mediocrity becomes second nature.
0.000% of Communism has been built. Evil child-murdering billionaires still rule the world with a shit-eating grin. All he has managed to do is make himself sad. He is starting to suspect Kras Mazov fucked him over personally with his socio-economic theory. It has, however, made him into a very, very smart boy with something like a university degree in Truth. Instead of building Communism, he now builds a precise model of this grotesque, duplicitous world.
First, if you have a side-bitch ideology cooking somewhere, don't sweat it. Fightin' indirect taxation for the Gossamer State is compatible with all creeds. It's cool like that. You're a cool anarchist now. Unless you don't want to be an anarchist. Whatever! Stuff this meal ticket in your eye-socket and let's see if we can steal some love back from the robber barons at the customs agency and the banditos at The Insulindian Financial Oversight and Competition Committee.
His eyes are milky white and blind to the world, protruding comically from their sockets. There is no one home, just sub-aquatic terrors there.
- That isn't just a five-pointed star -- it's an inverted white pentagram cradled in a wreath of antlers. The iconography of communism, in other words.
The star-and-antlers was developed in the sixth decade of the last century and quickly adopted by Mazov and the communards during the Revolution […] The wreath of antlers represents a natural crown. It was about building a society that could exist in accord with the natural world -- and at the same time above it. [Why is the star upside down?] To symbolize the toppling of the old order. [Why white?] Because white is the colour of peace.
Revachol is the disgraced former capital of the world, divided into zones of control under foreign occupation -- half a century after a failed world revolution. She is central to our moment in time.
The Revacholian State will be a serene place. (You should get a drink.) A beautiful, serene place of mystery and peace. It will not be a place for women to infect with their frailty and hysterics. Or where the Semenese will be allowed to wear their pants around their ankles. All of that will go. (Once you get a drink.) The socialist professors at the École Supérieure will be fired, the editors of Trompe le Monde will have to beg in the streets. You'll pour your beer into their begging hats and laugh. (You should get a beer.)
People think Communism was some crazy idea that had its comeuppance 40 years ago. A fever that shook the world, never to return again. They were right. Until he woke up today – a spiritual corpse responsive only to the call of Commodore Red, prostitutes, and Kras Mazov. For him, Communism is still a thing. He will single-handedly raise the Commune of '02 from the oceanic trench where it has been resting, covered in ghosts and seaweed! He is the Big Communism Builder. Come, witness his attempt to rebuild Communism in the year '51!
You can see it so clearly. In a dark alley behind a boite de nuit, a young couple is having sex on a shopping cart. Their eyes are bloodshot and their brains fried. They are in the throes of narcomania On the top floor of an office building, a young exec takes a drag from a short spliff and his eyes roll to the back of his skull. He too is a narcomaniac. Someone needs to take a stand. The world needs a Narc. The world needs you. (Don't worry, you can still drink and smoke, those aren't real drugs.)
Halt! Put down the pipe, scumbag! The Narc is on the scene and he's gonna tell it to you straight. Drugs are for losers. They fry your brain and rewire your circuits to self-destruct. And they make you masturbate too. Have a drink instead. Have two. Have three bottles of wine, it's impossible to masturbate after three bottles of wine. And remember, friends don't let friends get high...or be sober. Peace out, little brother.
The butts you saw had a silhouette of a boy wearing a kofia hat -- a tobacco picker. This boy is the Tioumoutiri brand logo. Contemporary Revacholians prefer Drouin (a local blend from the southern islands) or Astra, a legendary cigarette from Graad. Tioumoutiri is favoured by older men who like its old fashioned paper filter tips, insane amount of tar and the sweet smells of colonialism and halva.
Heartache is powerful, but democracy is *subtle*. Incrementally, you begin to notice a change in the weather. When it snows, the flakes are softer when they stick to your worry-worn forehead. When it rains, the rain is warmer. Democracy is coming to the Administrative Region. The ideals of Dolorian humanism are reinstating themselves. How can they not? These are the ideals of the Coalition and the Moralist International. Those guys are signal blue. And they're not only good -- they're also powerful. What will it be like, once their nuanced plans have been realized?

Limbic System

[About the player] It was him. He is the infernal engine. He never stops. He only gets worse.

Ancient Reptilian Brain

You're the son of the World again. Harrister -- a ceaseless agent picking up litter and old newspapers, collecting your little bubble gum wrappers and idiotic picture post cards. Meaningless, meaningless keepsakes.

Bloated Corpse of a Drunk

You really dropped the ball, Harry. Four point six billion people -- and you failed every single one of them. You really fucked up.

Kim Kitsuragi

Detective, each of us has our part to play in the world. My part is to solve crimes. I am under no illusion that my role isn't a minor one, in the scheme of things... but I embrace it because it's my role, and it's yours too, detective, whether you accept it or not!
What do they believe in? They are Dolorians. They believe they continue the humanist project set forth by Her Innocence Dolores Dei four centuries ago. Others say they're just technocrats.
The manufacturing and sale of automatic rifles was curtailed after the Revolution. The destructive power of such tools proved to be... too much. We do need to retain some humanity in this world.
Perhaps you can climb them. We're not climbing anything. I'm 43 years old -- and I plan to live to see 70.
Every school of thought and government has failed in this city -- but I love it nonetheless. It belongs to me as much as it belongs to you.

Acele Berger

You don't get to choose your posse, they choose you. Mine are idiots, but they're mine.

Klaasje Amandou

I love Revachol, though. I hope she loves me too.

Pissf****t [sic]

The word PISSF****T [sic] epitomizes the struggle taking place in the world, things being defined as they seem, not as they are. And -- I guess -- it's also about communal spirit, the future, and truly appreciating our differences. Also, you've got to admit, it catches the eye. And since the grand piper is slowly but steadily moving towards basing the economy on it -- attention -- it is imperative that the medium itself convey the message.

Insulindian Phasmid

The moral of our encounter is: I am a relatively median lifeform -- while it is you who are total, extreme madness. A volatile simian nervous system, ominously new to the planet. The pale, too, came with you. No one remembers it before you. The cnidarians do not, the radially symmetricals do not. There is an almost unanimous agreement between the birds and the plants that you are going to destroy us all.
I went unnoticed by the first settlers and the land surveyors of the suzerain. Also by the soldiers of the Revolution and the officials of the occupation. Even the Semenese islanders who came here first, but did not stay, have not seen me.

Joyce Messier

The pale is the most dominant geological feature of the world, detective -- the separative tissue between the isolas. It is the interisolary mass.
[describing the discovery of Insulinde, where Revachol is located] For a time the crew thought they were experiencing a hallucination. The mast-hand proclaimed 'L´Insulinde! L´Insulinde!' -- the signal to wake up. But they could not. They were sane and conscious, as islands began to appear on the horizon... There are 78,000 uninhabited islands in the Insulindian archipelago, officer. The freckled face of god.
The nations who colonized this isola called theirs Mundi. The World. It was all they knew, all they thought would be. That there would be something more was a gamble. Akin to another world -- or life after death.
The pale was thought to be impregnable, perpetual. […] Irene La Navigateur, the Queen of Suresne, sent eight expeditions, one after the other, into the mass at the edge of the world. Five of the crews did not return. Two did, but had lost their minds.
Achromatic, odourless, featureless. The pale is the enemy of matter and life. It is not like any other -- or any thing in the world. It is the transition state of being into nothingness.
Capital has the ability to subsume all critiques into itself. Even those who would critique capital end up reinforcing it instead...

Measurehead

OFFSHOOTS OF THE SEMENESE PEOPLE INVENTED DISCO WHILE HAVING SEX UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF COCAINE. IT IS A SHAME UPON MY RACE - BUT WHAT IS DONE IS DONE.
YOU DOMINATED LESSER CULTURES -- LIKE THE DEFORMED HIMEANS AND THE INEXPLICABLY POTATO-OBSESSED KOJKOS -- BUT NOW YOUR ASCENT TO THE GENETIC SUMMIT HAS HALTED. YOU ARE OBSESSED WITH SADNESS AND WITH FRIVOLOUS POP CULTURE.

Cuno

Being off speed makes Cuno sad. Makes Cuno think about shit.
[on a drug Harry shows him] Cuno doesn't do that radioactive shit. Makes Cuno's dick fall off. Cuno's got a huge dick.
Pig, these are FALN Modulars! Liquid fit, performance crotch, urban survival shit! Made in Mirova... by scientists. Pants scientists.

René Arnoux

"The Suzerain is the King. Has everyone forgotten already?" He then slowly nods and says to himself: "They've forgotten already."
“You do not speak his name, craven! Although he was a clown..." he adds. He turns back to you. "But he was our clown. Ours to ridicule -- and to mourn."

Gaston Martin

René, you're a man with a fork in a world of soup. Please... let's just try to enjoy the game, alright?

Call Me Mañana

By Heavens, why would he not be corrupt? We live in a harsh and disordered world, see. […] the old man is corrupt for our benefit and we know it. Appreciate it, even. He is, personally, not too lavish.

Elizabeth Beaufort

Listen, you Moralintern lackeys. You're a mob, enforcing the unlawful privatization of Revachol. Twenty fat men in the Occident are stealing it all -- and you're their body guards.

The Deserter

It has to take it off to kill everyone -- everything you love; all the hope and tenderness in the world. It has to take it off, just for one second. To do the deed.

No superiors can relieve me of my duty, you bulldozed them all to a mass grave for trying to free humanity.
The mask of humanity fall[s] from capital. It has to take it off to kill everyone -- everything you love; all the hope and tenderness in the world. It has to take it off, just for one second. To do the deed.

Dialogue

Harrier Du Bois: Are you telling me that you are so rich that light literally bends around your face?

Mega-Rich Light-Bending Guy: Among other things... but calm down, I'm but a lowly single-digit billionaire.

Harrier Du Bois: Really?

Mega-Rich Light-Bending Guy: No, not really. There are actually quite many digits.

Narrator: A man this chill is at least a triple digit billionaire.

Harrier Du Bois: What's a shitkid?

Jean Viquemare: – You. Shitkid -- that's you.

Cuno: Fuck does Cuno care?

Narrator: The boy turns to you. (He doesn't care.)

Harrier Du Bois: What are those things?

Kim Kitsuragi: They're spinner hubcaps -- frivolous things you put on your wheels. When the wheels come to a stop […] the caps keep on spinning. There's no real use for them, it's just for vanity.

Narrator: A vanity he wouldn't mind.

Harrier Du Bois: Sounds like you don't enjoy pinball, Kim.

Kim Kitsuragi: No, I love it -- I love pinball. Who doesn't love pinball? Let's move on.

Narrator: He doesn't.

Harrier Du Bois: I wonder what I look like up on this edge.

Narrator: From the eyes of a seagull: a nest of brown hair not worth the fifty foot dive. From a pedestrian on the dock: a rugged man staring out to sea, mere feet from fatality. From a guest on the balcony of the Whirling-in-Rags: a silhouette imposing enough to be seen at a distance.

Harrier Du Bois: How did you get so cool, Kim?

Kim Kitsuragi: "You mean this?" The light of his cigarette illuminates a fleeting smile. "This isn't cool -- it's an unnecessary trial of will. And unhealthy." He flicks the ash.

Narrator: Keeping the habit within the parameters he's given himself takes a lot of focus. It would be easier to simply quit. Yet were he to quit, he would lose the cool factor. This man relishes his cool quite a bit -- below it all.

Harrier Du Bois: Are you part of the homo-sexual [sic] underground?

Kim Kitsuragi: You didn't stop at all, did you? You're just obsessing about other people's sexuality now.

Harrier Du Bois: Yeah, but...

Kim Kitsuragi: ...but am I? I'll spare you another 20 hour mind-project -- yes, I am. Now let's get back to work.

Harrier Du Bois: If we ever get this case solved, maybe we can do it together?

Kim Kitsuragi: "Maybe," he replies with an apologetic smile and nods. "Yes, definitely maybe."

Narrator: …and means no.

Harrier Du Bois: The Iilmaraan people did not invent alcohol. It's existed since the neolithic.

Measurehead: THIS IS A FABRICATION THE AL-CHEMISTS [sic] OF YEESUT AND BASHIR AND THEIR GOLEM, AL GUL, HAVE FED YOUR PEOPLE. GO ON BELIEVING IN IT RACE LOSER.

Cuno: "Cuno doesn't want to talk about this shit." There is a moment of thoughtful silence. He almost looks behind him.

Narrator: That is a look of a man who knows he'll be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.

Joyce Messier - "So," she returns the zip bag to her jacket. "I hope I didn't just bribe you, officer. It may not be technically illegal under the Emergency Act, but still..."

Harrier Du Bois: Certainly not. I am an honourable policeman.

Kim Kitsuragi: You're right, ma'am, that donations are permitted under the Emergency Act, unseemly as it may be, as long as they're properly logged with the precinct...

Harrier Du Bois: Geez, sorry. I was just being curious?

Mysterious pair of eyes: Bi-curious or plain curious?

Harrier Du Bois: Umm... bi?

Mysterious pair of eyes: Yeah, I bet you are.

Harrier Du Bois: - What's in the west?

Narrator: More winding coastline lined with abandoned buildings. Crumbling piers salt water lapping at their dark piles. Grey and red, forgotten city blocks. What remains of the pre-revolutionary effort to gentrify the coast.

Harrier Du Bois: - And beyond that?

Narrator: The waters turn black. Coal City in the shadow of Saint-Martin, a boom town, back when coal extracted from countless shafts near the city was need to power Revachol. No more. The coal was supplanted by petroleum from the ocean floor and hydropower from the Esperance. Everything crumbled. These days, only the weakest remain in Coal City. Their hopes of getting rich linger in the defunct shafts under their feet.

Narrator: O glorious Falnier! You wear the full set like a true-born hero. The ULTIMATE PERFORMANCE of FALN flows in you.

Harrier Du Bois: I feel... so dynamic.

Narrator: You are the most Ultra of men. Peak performance! Go on! The fucking sunset awaits, FALN rider!

Narrator: This is the flag of Revachol the Suzertainty.

Harrier Du Bois: What's with the sun?

Narrator: This isn't just one sun, but there are little suns dancing around the big sun. This is the Sevenfold Sun Miracle. […] It's an optical atmospheric anomaly the first settlers saw. Happens in cold weather: six small suns around the big one. This complex halo-phenomena is how old Revachol got its flag.

Taglines

What kind of cop are you?
A detective RPG

External links

Wikipedia

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Disco Elysium