Pluribus is a maddening, brilliant homerun from Breaking Bad creator Vince Gilligan that captures our post-pandemic world.

Contains spoilers:

People have been comparing Pluribus with countless zeitgeisty topics: artificial intelligence, COVID-19, social media, and our Silicon Valley tech bro overlords have all come up in response to the sci-fi series. It makes perfect sense, too, because the myriad of possible interpretations is part of the show’s appeal.

Pluribus follows the cynical author Carol Sturka (Rhea Seehorn), adapting to a world overtaken by a mind virus — an event dubbed ‘the joining’. Episode 7, which sees Carol flirt with suicide-by-firework as Paraguayan survivor Manousos (Carlos Manuel Vesga) treks to reach her, ties these underlying, possibly unintentional, themes together, shaping Pluribus as a story about togetherness at the cost of everything else. People can’t help theorizing what the show’s about because it reflects so much back at us. And maybe it’s not one specific thing keeping Gilligan up at night, but rather the small cracks in our foundation soon to become gaping holes.

Join us, Carol

A fixed, better world, with fairly distributed resources and no necessity for money. “Paradise,” or “the end of the world.” However you want to characterize the joining, it came at a steep price: individuality is gone. A subduing parasite has replaced humanity, and the body count is in the hundreds of millions.

Carol’s panic rises as the world becomes unrecognisably homogenous and placated in a scarily quick timespan (a parallel to the sharp rise of AI); she’s forced to move quickly past her grief (the aforementioned pandemic); the hivemind’s streamlined efficiency ‘fixes’ the world’s problems at the expense of shared community and freedom (the highly modernised, technology-reliant world many of us live in).

The only person who truly knew her is buried in her backyard. She’s encouraged to not just accept her fate but run to it with open arms, lured in by the promise of eternal contentment. When “the individual that used to go by Zosia” (Karolina Wydra) tells Carol she sees her “drowning” in episode 3, the hivemind is challenging Carol to resist a soothing numbness, where a problem shared isn’t just a problem halved but divided into billions of tiny pieces until it’s no longer a problem at all. A permanent even keel, in trade for every deep, insightful well of sadness you’ve yet to encounter and every joyful high not yet found.

As Carol visits empty gas stations, empty supermarkets, and howls with coyotes in her once lived-in suburb, the absence of life is striking. Gilligan demonstrates the consequences of convenience and loneliness taken to their extremes. There’s no need to go to a store in person when you can have your groceries delivered by drone. What happens when everything’s at our fingertips, and there’s no reason to go outside at all anymore? The hivemind has centralized food distribution and is working in condensed unison to provide everything she needs at a moment’s notice.

Watching Carol navigate deserted roads and desolate suburbs speaks to how much Pluribus might be about social binding, and access to each other’s every waking thought in a sort of biological ‘cloud’. The veneer of connectivity, meanwhile, physical intimacy and social lives plummet. This mimics how our real world’s quest for togetherness has achieved the opposite. You can call someone on the other side of the planet, but you might go several days without physically being in the same room as another person. We can argue with each other endlessly on social media while never facilitating relationships that never leave the digital world.

You’re Perfectly Safe, Carol

One of the clever ways Pluribus puts Carol in an impossible-to-navigate situation is by making the hivemind kind and generous. It’s actively solving world hunger, has decimated social-political barriers, and eradicated crime.

Herein lies the problem, though. It reeks of a ‘Greek gift.’ The deaths of everyone Carol cared about bloodies the olive branch. Carol largely rejects the hivemind’s affirmation and pleasantries because they don’t ring true. This entity hurt her, and she believes it makes the world a worse place.

In the eyes of the other survivors and many viewers, if social media is any indication, this makes her pessimistic reaction to the joining and the hostility towards the hive excessive and inflexible. It’s somewhat logical, too: if injustice is ended and the world becomes a haven for all species, how much do your individual needs, like avenging your lover, factor into the equation? How about your favorite server at your local diner, your favorite artist, or your daily crossword ritual? Meanwhile, Mr. Diabaté (Samba Schutte) revels in his Las Vegas penthouse, satisfied by the hivemind’s inability to say no.

The discourse regarding Carol’s response has been reductive and simple, and you get the sense the series anticipates this because of how the in-world characters treat her for refusing to bend. They’re irritated by her lack of people skills, rather than focused on the critical questions she raises. The survivors incessantly gaslight her while slinging straw-man arguments. She’s the odd one out, like she always has been — this is just an extension of an existing distance from the rest of humanity. This is reinforced by episode 4’s conversion therapy camp reveal. This is a woman whom society once tried to change, while telling her that rejecting the transformation makes her difficult.

But Carol’s rage, the loss of Helen (Miriam Shor), and her frank communication style are what make her character so refreshing. In a new world of validation-seeking, ignorance-is-bliss mentalities, others paint her as hysterical. Carol is a foil to the hivemind because she doesn’t immediately fall into the selfish, self-serving philosophy that the hivemind is purely ethical and there to grant wishes to take over the reins so the survivors don’t have to move a muscle, maybe because the task at hand is too big, and requires too much sacrifice (*cough* climate change denial). She’s had to hold onto her identity desperately in the past, so she won’t let it go willingly now. This, inevitably, makes her a contrarian. Despite recovering from her girlfriend’s death and watching the end of culture in real time, she’s expected to be thankful. Pay gratitude for your privileges, and ignore all the terrible things that make them possible. Don’t whine, lest you be labeled “unlikable” in a series about the messy, complicated human condition and what happens when we lose the things that make us ‘us.’

The accusation Carol is overreacting feels uncomfortably meta. From the way Gilligan speaks about not wanting to use ChatGPT unless there’s a gun pointed at his head, we can reasonably assume new technologies and their unquestioned proliferation are a facet of this story. Not to mention the insane experience of arguing in favor of personal responsibility and herd tactics during the pandemic. In episode 2, all remaining survivors dine together with their listening ears turned off. The other survivors don’t want to hear a bad word about the hivemind, because it forces them to confront an imperfect reality. Carol’s poorly delivered moral outrage makes them feel insecure, because they’re selectively choosing what truths to acknowledge. Carol is not a people person, which makes it easier to dismiss her.

The next time AI slop finds its way onto your timeline, maybe the experience will remind you of how Carol was driven to chug her red wine after discovering everyone else not only didn’t want to ask questions, but resented her for asking hers. People don’t want to be uncomfortable, not at their survivors’ lunch, nor in front of their TVs when watching a character who would rather be disliked than swallow her ethical concerns.

Trust us, Carol

One of the most unsettling things about ‘The Others’ — the bodies who have joined — as a collective is their access to the memories of those who have joined. Dead or alive, there’s a boundless dataset with every opinion and memory logged and ready to be weaponized. It’s not a social media mogul using your online footprint as the backbone of their company’s profits, but the hivemind’s ability to retool personal information and use it to sell the joining doesn’t feel alien. Your chatbot remembers your child’s name or anticipates your next need before you’ve even typed it. You can be safe in the knowledge you don’t need to know or do anything, because the answers are in the hands of a vast power.

Privacy has ceased to exist, but the hive comes in familiar, cutesy packaging — they’re marketing experts.

In episode 6, it sends what used to be Manousos’ mother to try to win him over. It works less than the hivemind’s pirate-lady representative aimed at Carol. Manousos sees them as a threat, and isn’t fooled by the hivemind  cleverly sending different meat sacks to speak to different survivors. He’s smart to hold onto his will; the hive has plainly said it’s not an individual, but a collective. 

Every time the hivemind dispatches ‘Zosia’ to speak to Carol, it dresses her in unpretentious knitwear, puts on a wig, and wears makeup. An emotionally manipulative intentionality exists despite its honesty and values. It uses familiarity to lower defenses, while admitting the person who used to inhabit the body no longer has personhood. The hivemind has access to ‘data’ — memories, opinions, and feelings — but hasn’t actually experienced any of it. Whether you’re talking with an unknown face or one you’ve known since the day you were born, it’s the same entity underneath. This is what makes Carol’s hesitant but undeniable soft spot for Zosia dangerous.

It’s eerily reminiscent of those viral internet stories about people AI generating videos of their dead relatives or celebrities. You’re seeing an approximation, a concept, of a person you loved, but the soul is not there. Regardless of whether the hivemind means well or not, it is not Zosia, and it’s not Manousos’ mother.

I’m not one of them, Carol

After Carol drugs The Others in episode 4 to pry answers out of Zosia, the hivemind withdraws from her. It teaches Carol a harsh lesson when every person packs up and moves out of state. It also cuts off real-time contact, forcing Carol to leave voicemails should she need something. She is isolated for weeks.

Now, Carol has nobody left. She’s near the end of her tether in episode 5 after travelling to Las Vegas to relay what she thought was game-changing information about the hivemind’s dietary habits. She, reasonably, thought if Diabaté learned the hivemind was drinking ground-up dead bodies, he would see things differently. She instead realizes Diabaté, for his own reasons, cares more about his strange, vaguely non-reciprocal relationship with the hivemind than how it survives. Furthermore, Carol’s presence sends his sex toys away, so he’s eager to push her out after a single evening of conversation.

Diabaté is hooked on instant gratification and the illusion of security the hive provides. We know nothing about his background, so perhaps food on the table and quality clothes mean more to him than Carol can comprehend. Regardless, he’s embedded in the lifestyle the hivemind grants, even if it reeks of obligation on its end — a fleeting, material, meaningless performance. The hivemind can partake, but clearly does not derive the same enjoyment, exemplified by the eerie poker scene where all joy drops from the faces the moment Diabaté leaves the room.

Despite their disagreement, there’s a warming scene where they share breakfast. Carol eats her avocado toast the way she likes it, with Diabaté watching curiously and mirroring her. This is how we learn and grow together. We observe the world, which moulds us. The hivemind offers instant gratification at your fingertips. Any subject, any expertise, anything he wants; Diabaté needs only to ask. But something in his brain still registers that watching Carol eat her food could be rewarding. If Carol were a member of the hivemind, she wouldn’t have smashed her avocado. In fact, she wouldn’t have eaten it at all. She would have drunk several nutritionally complete cartons of people-juice at optimal periods of the day.

Miles away, Manousos, who tells the hive an episode later that it cannot give him anything because everything it has is “stolen”, stands fast and denies the conveniences and comforts the hivemind dangles in front of him.

We need some space, Carol

Carol might not like people, but she still needs them — we all do. We are a social species; loneliness causes devastating physical and psychological effects. By the end of episode 7, Carol is borderline suicidal and socially dejected after her fruitless meeting with Diabaté. She replaces energized investigation with meaningless pottering around, trying Diabaté’s hedonism on for size. Carol fills the silence with sing-songs, escapes into art, and seeks out comfort food. None of it stops an ache from developing.

Meanwhile, Manousos is siphoning gas, machete-ing his way through humid jungle, and learning English so he can meet her face to face, refusing to trust the hivemind to facilitate their communication. He discovers a cynical, messy, real human when he watches her taped message, and immediately runs towards her. Not knowing Manousos is an ally, Carol is vulnerable and solitary.

She has given up and is desperate for contact. Like a woman sending a text to a toxic ex, she paints “come back” on her street and falls into the arms of a woman the hivemind specifically chose to lower Carol’s guard. The hivemind wears the mask of a smiling, attractive woman, but it is objectively not her. But by now, Carol is reliant on the last remaining tenderness available. It’s easier to say yes than no; sign up or be left behind. 

Carol is in a desperate situation: be left utterly alone, or run into the embrace of the people who took everything from her. The hive withholds affection and company until she literally can’t live without it any longer. It says it forgives the drugging hijinks, but doesn’t return until Carol is broken. The hivemind controls her food, controls the bodies it holds hostage, controls everything. Carol must eventually play ball; otherwise, she’s likely to lose her mind or aim another firework at her head. If she resists too passionately, The Others could have another lethal mass seizure in response to her negativity or abandon her again.

What next, Carol?

At the time of writing, Carol is at rock bottom and clinging to Zosia for comfort (girl, get up!), but the hivemind has actually given Carol something valuable: purpose. It’s hard to recognize what’s sacred until you lose it. Reeling at the loss of independent thinking, Carol is forced to be her own hero. 

In our own lives, this same activation is needed to keep our critical thinking skills, attention span, and empathy alive in a digital landscape that teases out our worst apathetic instincts and beams drivel into our eye sockets. It’s easy to feel like you’re going insane for simply caring about things. Watching Carol trying to save the world, not backing down despite how much she’s told she should, and working to preserve the good, the bad, and the ugly, is gratifying.

Complacency provides relief, and being cognizant of threats like climate change and generative AI often rewards you with disdain from those who want to pretend everything is fine. Hopefully season 2 resists making Carol even a shred more pleasant. Whether the hivemind turns out to be a net-positive or an unwitting villain in Gilligan’s story, the show compellingly places the onus of care and responsibility on the shoulders of a grumpy, grieving fantasy author who wants things to go back to the way they were. If you’re tired of people telling you to “get over” things and that it’s “just the way it is,” Carol is the cathartic protagonist you’ve been waiting for.