u/LibrarianBarbarian1

What do you think would happen if one of the immune were a psychopath like Tuco Salamanca from the BB Universe? Suppose that instead of just cosplaying James Bond, riding in Air Force 1 and boffing a lot of hot chicks, Diabetes was executing Plurbs on the slightest of whims and staging gladiatorial combats and massacres for his entertainment. Would the Others just go with it to keep him happy or would they try to find some way to stop him without violating their guidelines? Like maybe convincing other Immunes to kill him?

SPOILER ALERT:

>!Starting off with Carol ready and willing to detonate an atom bomb to preserve her individuality. A little more abrupt than Walt/Heisenberg or Jimmy/Saul, but he probably doesn't have as many seasons to work with on this.!<

>!Maybe we should call this "The Albuquerque Shuffle". It's clearly Gilligan's signature directorial move, like twist endings for Shyamalan, suburban magic for Spielberg and slow motion for Peckinpah.!<

Is Pluribus a low-key critique of hyper-collectivism?

If you look past the surface, Carol being a lesbian feels like a total smokescreen to give the show easy progressive credentials so people don't look too closely at what she actually represents: the traditionalist, older-gen white West.

The "Plurbed" function as a pretty blatant allegory for the downsides of a total therapeutic state. They literally trade away their individuality for structural harmony, to the point of a weirdly pathological altruism where they care more about global engineering than their own self-preservation.

Meanwhile, notice how the other survivors are carefully diverse (one Black character, one Asian, one Hispanic, etc.)? They represent the non-aligned world watching this internal Western ideological crisis play out. They aren't bought into the collective mindset, they’re just being pragmatic and figuring out how to survive off the resources the Plurbed are constantly sacrificing.

Basically, the show isn't celebrating this utopia; it’s warning that sacrificing individuality for total systemic compliance is an existential threat.

I'm developing this theory more, but wanted to see what people think. anyone else picking up on these subtexts?

If he had just shot Drew and Andrea, enslaved Jesse, and strangled the cleaning lady while being a typical violent criminal type, or conversely if he'd gotten all worked up with guilt over it, nobody would remark on Todd.

Gus's men shot a kid, Walt poisoned Brock, Jesse shot Gale at the door much like Todd shot Andrea, Mike executed Werner on much the same level as Todd killing the maid. Walter flew off the handle and murdered Mike for no reason, Walt and Jesse held Krazy 8 locked in the basement for days before Walt murdered him.

The difference? Those killings were done by either brutal violent killers or by guys who engaged in a lot of chest-beating and hair-tearing guilt afterwards. But the effect of their actions was equal or even worse than Todd's. Not even Tuco, the sadist who takes joy in beating people to death, is seen with as much horror as Todd.

And everyone feels so sorry for Walt and Jesse and Mike, who are doing the same horrible things as Todd. Maybe if they have such sensitive consciences, they are just in the wrong line of work. Maybe they are even worse than Todd because they supposedly know better.

I think people just need a killer character to either be horrible and violent 24/7, or to beat themselves up emotionally after every crime. They cannot accept someone who is at heart a pleasant, kind person but who simply understands that making a crime omelet requires that some eggs be unfortunately broken.

The desert sun beat down on the asphalt of the Albuquerque duplex, but outside Unit A, the air felt strangely still. Walter White, dressed in his beige wallabees and a faded windbreaker, wasn't looking for trouble. He was looking for Jesse Pinkman.

Instead, he found her.

She was leaning against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, looking like a dark smudge against the blinding stucco wall. Jane Margolis. Her eyes, sharp and cynical, locked onto Walt’s.

"If you're looking for the meth head next door, he’s passed out," she said, her voice a cool, raspy purr.

Walt paused, adjusting his glasses. He didn't see a landlord. He saw someone fiercely intelligent, utterly bored, and wasting away. He stepped closer, the mild-mannered high school teacher melting away to reveal something far more imposing. He had absolutely nothing left to lose at home anyway. The revelation that Skyler's unborn baby wasn't even his, but Ted Beneke's, had shattered the last remnants of his domestic duty. Combine that with the bitter poison of Flynn's newfound, pure hatred for him, the boy refusing to even look him in the eye, and Walt felt entirely unshackled. He owed that family nothing.

"I'm not here for him," Walt said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the resonant authority of Heisenberg. "Not anymore."

Jane blinked, the cynical smirk faltering. Walt took a step into her space, his gaze steady and intoxicatingly confident. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray strand of black hair from her forehead. "You're capable of so much more than this squalor, Jane."

For a girl used to broken boys and desperate junkies, Walt’s absolute gravity was like a tractor beam. He didn't just ask for her attention; he claimed it. Within a week, Jesse Pinkman was an afterthought, locked out of his own life, while Jane was looking at Walter White like he was the center of the universe.

The Cleansing and The Chemistry

Walt didn't just sweep Jane off her feet; he took control. Recognizing the brilliant, artistic mind trapped behind a haze of opiates, he gave her an ultimatum. He threw her stash down the toilet, held her through the sweating, agonizing nights of withdrawal, and replaced the chemical craving with something infinitely more potent: power.

Once she was clean, her eyes bright and focused, he brought her into the lab.

Jesse had been sloppy. Jane was a revelation. With her steady hands and meticulous artistic eye, she grasped the chemistry faster than Jesse ever could. Walt stood behind her at the boiling flasks, guiding her hands as she measured the phenylacetic acid.

"Watch the meniscus, Jane," Walt murmured near her ear. "Chemistry is respect. It's growth, decay, and transformation."

"It's beautiful," she whispered, watching the liquid turn a flawless, crystalline blue.

To the world, she needed a legal cover. Walt installed her at the A1A Carwash as his personal secretary. Sitting in the glass office, managing the books, and filtering the cash, she looked every bit the sharp, professional woman, but with a dangerous, knowing smile whenever Walt walked through the door.

In his dingy apartment, Jesse Pinkman sat alone in the dark, staring at a dead cell phone, completely left in the cold.

A New Partner in Crime

Saul Goodman had given Walt a piece of advice weeks ago during a tense meeting in his back office:

"Look, Walt, if the home front is a battlefield, you gotta face facts. Skyler is a liability. What you need isn't a suspicious housewife. You need a moll. A ride-or-die. Someone who knows the score and likes the taste of the blood."

Walt had dismissed it then. But with Ted's bastard on the way and his own son treating him like a monster, the decision was effortless. Looking at Jane, sharp as a whip, completely loyal, and utterly detached from the moral constraints of Albuquerque society, he realized Saul was right. Skyler belonged to Walter White, the dying cuckold. Heisenberg needed a queen.

The Clean Break

The late afternoon light cast long, amber shadows across the office of the A1A Carwash. The vacuum cleaners outside were finally silent.

Walt stood by the front desk, dressed in a sharp, new jacket. Beside him, Jane packed the last of her things into a neat leather briefcase, her dark eyes flashing with anticipation. A pristine, chrome-plated luggage set sat by the door.

Walt walked over to the counter. He took out a simple white envelope. Inside was a goodbye card. No long-winded explanations, no apologies. Just a clean break for Skyler. Let Beneke raise the child, and let Flynn nurse his grudge in an empty house.

He placed it neatly next to the cash register where she would find it the next morning.

Walt reached over and clicked on the radio sitting on the shelf. He turned the dial, and suddenly, a bright, triumphant blast of mariachi trumpets erupted from the tinny speakers, its distinctively Southwestern, rolling brass intro filling the empty office. It was R.B. Greaves’ 1969 hit, "Take a Letter, Maria."

As the punchy, joyous trumpets blared, perfectly punctuating his exit from the old life, the vocals kicked in:

“Take a letter, Maria, address it to my wife...” the singer crooned. “Say I won't be coming home, gotta start a new life...”

Walt caught Jane's eye. A slow, brilliant smirk spread across his face, completely in sync with the upbeat, driving rhythm of the song. He extended his hand. Jane took it, her grip firm and unyielding.

Underneath the lyrics, the mariachi trumpets flared up again, soaring and cinematic, sounding less like a pop song and more like a coronation for his new empire.

They walked out of the carwash together, locking the glass doors behind them, leaving the past in the Albuquerque dust as the triumphant brass faded into the desert night.

For proof, (A) it was filmed in your hometown, (B) your ex dated the director in high school before he moved to Hollywood, and (C) you recall brainstorming on unrelated story ideas with your ex to sell to this director guy some years before the movie came out, (D) you have vague memories of her saying the director was interested in anecdotes about her young daughter and was considering using them, and they are indeed portrayed in this movie, and finally (E) while there are some plot alterations and additions, many scenes and themes in the film directly echo scenes and issues of your relationship.

How would this make you feel?

I finally decided to do a deep dive autopsy on a relationship with my college girlfriend that lasted about a decade and still haunts me to a certain degree over 20 years later.

After a lot of research and self examination and review, (with help from AI) I realized it was simply undiagnosed BPD Discouraged subtype (me) meets BPD Impulsive/Histrionic subtype (her), and gets ensnared in a codependent unhealthy relationship that lasted way too long.

Kind of sucks to understand that something one has invested so much time and emotion and placed such great significance upon was just a pathological reaction.

How do I come to terms that we were just two disturbed people bouncing off one another repeatedly and not star-crossed soulmates? (And fuck pop-culture for promoting that dynamic as a romantic ideal.)