About “Pluribus” in a few words:

So here’s the scoop on the series: it’s called Pluribus (2025) and it’s the latest brain-twister from Vince Gilligan (yes, that one from Breaking Bad). The story takes place in Albuquerque and follows Carol Sturka, a romance novelist who turns out to be one of the few people not infected by a mysterious “happiness” contagion. Suddenly she’s thrust into a world where everyone’s bizarrely content — and she’s stuck trying to save humanity from… too much joy.

Meet the characters from Pluribus

Carol Sturka

Carol is the kind of force you notice when she walks into a room — part iron-willed community organizer, part slightly terrifying aunt who means well. She runs half the behind-the-scenes gears of Pluribus (or at least she says she does), forever juggling petty politics and big hearted rescues, and yes, she will roast you for not returning a library book. She hates bureaucracy with a passion but also has an obsessively organized drawer of labelled forms — don’t ask, it’s a whole thing — and she will somehow be both exasperated and delighted when a plan goes sideways. Her compassion is messy and fierce; she punishes you and then shows up with soup, mystery casserole, or a scolding that somehow fixes things — or makes them weirder, depending on the day.

Zosia

Zosia is slippery in the best way — witty, distractingly clever, and always three steps ahead even when she pretends not to be paying attention. She’s the dreamer-mechanic of Pluribus, tinkering with gadgets and feelings alike, prone to sudden poems and sudden pranks (sometimes in the same breath). She claims to be allergic to commitment but will fiercely guard a secret or a stray cat like a dragon, which is either adorable or terrifying; also she collects mismatched buttons for reasons she refuses to explain. She can be impossibly gentle and a little ruthless, and honestly you never know whether you’re being invited to tea or recruited for a midnight scheme.

Manousos

Manousos is the grumpy, salt-streaked heart of the neighborhood — ex-seafarer, current tavern-owner, terrible at small talk but somehow impossible to be mad at. He fixes things with duct tape and metaphors, tells stories that start true and end in legends, and will loudly insist that everyone needs more sleep (while serving espresso at midnight). He insists he hates fuss and sentiment yet keeps a drawer full of knitted hats for “when someone gets cold” — which he swears he will never admit to knitting himself. He’s blunt, stubborn, and astonishingly loyal; if he trusts you, he’ll defend you to the end, and if he doesn’t, you’ll know in the form of pointed silence and soup that tastes like a threat.