The second season of “The Last of Us” opens with Episode 1, “Future Days,” a chapter weighted with emotional repercussions and ominous consequences. Rather than summarizing events, this essay delves into the episode’s deeper layers—shattered bonds, psychological undercurrents, philosophical questions, and social echoes—through multiple lenses. The story depicts Joel and Ellie living in the settlement of Jackson five years after the traumatic climax of Season 1. They have settled into an uneasy peace, yet the fractures in their relationship and within the community hint at gathering storms. Interpreting these developments through psychology, philosophy, and symbolism reveals a narrative about the burdens of love and the illusions of safety in a broken world. The analysis explores overarching themes, character psychology, existential reflections, and social subtext, blending critical rigor with a reflective, almost poetic tone befitting the show’s haunting humanity.
⚠ SPOILER WARNING ⚠: This article contains major spoilers for The Last of us – Season 2 Episode 1. If you haven’t watched the episode yet, we highly recommend doing so before reading further. We will be diving into key plot points, character developments, and thematic analysis that may reveal significant surprises.
Table of Contents
Story and Thematic Analysis
Joel and Ellie: Fragile Bonds and the Search for Meaning
Joel and Ellie’s relationship in “Future Days” is marked by unspoken discord—a bond forged in love but weighed down by deception. Ellie suspects Joel has lied about what really happened at St. Mary’s Hospital, creating a kind of silent resentment between them. Joel, for his part, is burdened by guilt for saving Ellie at the cost of other lives, a secret that simmers beneath the surface. Their interactions are tense and distant; Ellie has moved out of Joel’s house and now lives in a garage, and even the simplest conversation brims with what remains unsaid.
This estrangement echoes Viktor Frankl’s insight that suffering without meaning can corrode the human spirit. Joel’s lie was meant to spare Ellie pain, but in doing so, he robbed her sacrifice of any sense of purpose. Unaware of why her life was spared, Ellie is left disoriented—a survivor of a catastrophe she can’t fully recall or process. Frankl wrote that people can endure any “how” if they have a “why,” yet Ellie’s “why” (to be humanity’s cure) was thwarted by Joel’s intervention. Now both struggle to find new meaning: Joel clings to his role as protector, while Ellie unconsciously seeks a sense of purpose by recklessly hunting Infected. Their pain is largely silent but fiercely motivating—Joel is driven to overprotectiveness and therapy sessions; Ellie turns to youthful rebellion.
In one poignant moment, Joel’s therapist urges him to speak the truth he dreads; he barely manages to choke out,
“I saved her,” without offering any details. That muted confession, alongside Ellie’s grumpy “Okay,” when he swears he’s telling the truth, illustrates how buried trauma drives them apart. Both are suffering, but without openly admitting why, they can’t help each other find any meaning in that pain.
From Frankl’s perspective, Joel and Ellie are trying to uncover significance amid suffering. Joel’s sole sense of purpose had been saving Ellie—a role that gave meaning to his own devastating loss of a daughter and the ruthless survivalism he endured for years. Having accomplished that goal (albeit by violent means), Joel now seems aimless, restless. Ellie, meanwhile, once accepted her destiny as “the one who could save everyone.” Stripped of that role, she feels a profound emptiness. The episode subtly shows Ellie keeping a journal and obsessing over small missions (like hunting stray Infected)—she’s a young person trying to write herself a new story after the old one collapsed. According to narrative psychology, the stories we tell about our lives shape who we are. Ellie’s identity had centered on sacrifice and hope; now she grapples with a story of betrayal and uncertainty. The gulf between her and Joel widens because they can’t align their versions of events: in Joel’s story, he is the rescuer who had to protect his “daughter,” whereas Ellie increasingly suspects she was deceived and denied her own choice. The episode title, “Future Days” (drawn from a song Joel once sang), drips with irony—Joel promises a future shadowed by their past. If they are to heal, Joel and Ellie must extract new meaning from their suffering, perhaps by confronting each other honestly. For now, that meaning remains fragmented, reflecting the state of their relationship. It underscores Frankl’s dictum that meaning is essential for enduring hardship; without it, the bond between them erodes under the weight of guilt and silence.
Joel as the Wounded Savior and His Inner Shadow
In this episode, Joel appears as a wounded savior—he saved Ellie’s life and has benefited Jackson with his skills, yet he carries deep psychic injuries. In Carl Gustav Jung’s words, Joel is wrestling with his shadow, that darker part of the self forged by the violence and lies he committed in the name of love. On the surface, he is Jackson’s esteemed builder and a paternal figure, but inwardly he’s tormented by unresolved guilt and fear. Jung described the shadow as the hidden, repressed side of the personality, “inferior and guilt-laden.” For Joel, that shadow includes the brutal killer he became, his memory of murdering Ellie’s would-be surgeon (and possibly even the late husband of his therapist Gail), and the lie he told Ellie. He’s desperate to keep these aspects buried—a desperation visible in his discomfort with therapy and his refusal to articulate his darkest secret. Jung noted that failing to acknowledge your shadow causes trouble in life and relationships. Indeed, Joel’s denial of the truth is the root of his distance from Ellie. Each time he skirts the subject, tension grows.
While Joel serves as a “savior,” he is far from a flawless hero—he’s morally and emotionally battered. We glimpse this in small moments: his embarrassment about attending therapy, his curt argument with Maria about helping refugees (his own trauma constraining his compassion), and his overbearing protectiveness toward Ellie (he tries to keep her off patrols). He rescued Ellie but may have lost his own moral compass along the way. The archetype of the wounded healer or savior often includes a hidden scar that never quite heals; Joel’s scar is internal. Jung’s concept of the shadow suggests that in Joel’s heroic act (saving Ellie), there lurked a certain selfishness or darkness he must face. Should he confront this shadow—by confessing his misdeeds and acknowledging his guilt—he might find redemption or wholeness. Instead, he runs from it, and the episode hints at looming external consequences for his unresolved darkness. Abby’s impending vengeance, in particular, can be viewed as the embodiment of his shadow. The past Joel thought he had buried literally emerges from the shadows in the form of a victim’s daughter seeking retribution. In Jungian terms, what we refuse to face within often returns from without, often triggering a “great war.” Indeed, Joel’s private battle with his conscience is poised to ignite a very public, physical conflict with Abby’s group. Joel’s development thus embodies the paradox of a savior who cannot save himself. He rescued Ellie’s life but unleashed a chain of violence that now haunts him. The wounded savior must eventually come to terms with his own shadow—or be undone by it. Episode 1 leaves him on the brink of that reckoning, his emotional wounds bleeding with every interaction, even as he pretends everything is fine.
Ellie’s Identity and Coming-of-Age Arc
At nineteen, Ellie is navigating a turbulent search for identity in the worst possible context: a post-apocalyptic world defined by expectations and loss. Her journey in this episode is one of isolation, first love, and a struggle for self-determination, framed through the lens of narrative psychology. The American psychologist Jerome Bruner argues that people construct their identities by weaving life events into an inner story. Ellie’s prior development was shaped by trauma—she lost her best friend Riley to infection, repeatedly witnessed death, discovered her immunity—and by the notion that her life was meant for a grand purpose (finding a cure for humanity).
Now, in the relative normalcy of Jackson, she seems almost uneasy with peace. Ellie’s isolation is partly self-imposed; she’s pulled away from Joel, the one person who truly understands her past, but that trust was tainted by betrayal. In Jackson, she’s surrounded by peers but feels fundamentally different—a perpetual outsider burdened by a secret (her immunity) and her unprocessed grief. This is classic coming-of-age tension—the feeling of being alone in a crowd—ratcheted up by extraordinary circumstances.
Ellie’s budding first love with Dina is a touching subplot that reveals her longing for connection and normalcy. Around Dina, Ellie’s tough exterior softens; she becomes a shy teenager capable of jealousy and infatuation. Their dance at the New Year’s party is a rare, joyful interlude: Ellie allows herself to be just a girl dancing with someone she likes, under sparkling lights and playful music. This moment of innocence is cruelly interrupted by bigotry—an older man’s homophobic slur shatters the illusion of safety and acceptance. Yet Ellie’s reaction (fury at Joel for defending her) shows how fiercely she asserts her own agency. She doesn’t want to be shielded or patronized, least of all by Joel. From her perspective, the same protective instinct that drove Joel years ago (at the hospital) to save her without her consent now undermines her sense of self. Even a well-intended gesture of protection triggers her anger. Ellie is in a painful individuation process—separating her identity from Joel’s guardianship and forging her own beliefs and relationships. We see this in her insistence on staying on patrols despite Joel’s misgivings, and her decision not to mention a fresh bite from an Infected. She refuses to be seen as fragile or special.
From Bruner’s standpoint, Ellie is rewriting her life through these actions. Rather than “the girl who had to be saved,” she’s striving to be “the young woman who saves others (or herself).” When she and Dina chase an unusual Infected in the supermarket, Ellie aggressively takes the lead, nearly sacrificing her safety to prove herself. Her immunity grants her a sort of reckless confidence—she knows she won’t turn if bitten—so she ventures close to fearlessness, even foolhardiness. From a narrative perspective, Ellie is testing the boundaries of her role: Is she invincible? Is she cursed? Does her life hold value beyond her immunity?
The episode suggests Ellie also yearns for the truth to ground her sense of identity. Early on, she presses Joel to swear he told her everything—an exchange laden with the subtext that her self-understanding depends on whether her survival means something. Joel’s lie forces Ellie to inhabit a false version of events (that plenty of people are immune and no cure existed). Deep down, she doesn’t believe it, creating a nagging cognitive dissonance in her personal story. Bruner would note the gap between the story she tells herself and the one that feels authentic. This inner conflict fuels her emotional volatility. Ellie’s arc in “Future Days” is an emotionally stirring portrayal of a young woman growing up in extreme circumstances—yearning for love, honesty, and choice. Through her budding love for Dina, she reclaims a slice of teenage normalcy; by defying Joel, she asserts her independence; in private moments (jotting down her thoughts, quietly tending a wound) she grapples with forging a coherent identity from her chaos. Her story remains unfinished—fragile, yet resilient—akin to the guitar strings Joel rethreads for her: threads of connection and self-expression that she must learn to tune herself.
Jackson: Community, Refugees, and Ethical Politics
In “The Last of Us,” Jackson, Wyoming, stands out as a rare beacon of civilization—complete with electricity, schools, and dance parties—but in Episode 1, the pressures beneath its wholesome surface come to light. A new wave of refugees forces the town to confront how far its celebrated values extend. Examining Jackson’s response through Hannah Arendt’s concept of the vita activa (from The Human Condition) highlights how this community negotiates labor, work, and action. Jackson excels at the first two: people perform labor (farming, patrolling, raising children) to sustain life and undertake work (building new houses, running a government) to create a stable world. It’s in action—the political realm of plurality and collective decision-making—that Jackson faces its true test. As a group of refugees appears at Jackson’s gates, we witness an uneasy debate among Joel, Tommy, and Maria, exposing a fundamental political question: who belongs to “our” community, and who remains on the outside?
Maria, who holds a leadership position, worries about resources and space—legitimate concerns for any community. Joel’s position is sharper: “We should look after our own,” he says, implying the refugees should be left to their fate. It’s a jarring statement, given that Joel himself was once an outsider taken in by Jackson. Maria’s pointed reminder— “You used to be a refugee yourself.” —underscores the ethical argument that we owe others the very empathy we once received. Arendt wrote that true political action reveals “who” we are through our principles and choices. In this debate, Joel reveals fear and insularity (“our own” vs. everyone else), while Maria expresses a more inclusive, humanitarian identity for Jackson. The town hovers at a crossroads: remain a polis that honors freedom and collective humanity, or become a fortified tribe surviving only by shutting out perceived threats. Arendt’s notion of plurality—that the world is shared by many different people and that politics must account for this—resonates here. If Jackson were to embrace Joel’s exclusionary stance, it would deny the basic plurality of human society and retreat into a narrow circle of trust.
The episode offers no tidy answer; it only highlights the tension. For the time being, Jackson’s council decides to let the refugees in, but anxiety hangs in the air. Tellingly, this argument unfolds while Joel is quite literally helping build a house—symbolizing Jackson’s future. What kind of house will it be, one with open doors or barricaded ones? Arendt might ask whether Jackson preserves the “human condition” of living together or capitulates to the fear that all outsiders pose a threat. We don’t see much development of the refugees themselves, but their presence serves as a moral litmus test for Jackson. The thematic parallel to real-world debates on migration and sanctuary is obvious. In the narrative, these philosophical questions become personal as characters we care about (Joel, Maria, Tommy) take moral stances. Joel’s hardened view—arguably shaped by personal trauma and the fear of losing what he loves—illustrates how empathy can erode once one’s own needs are fulfilled.
It’s a believable human response, but moral philosophy warns us against it. Arendt, who wrote extensively about refugees in her lifetime, would likely side with Maria’s conviction that communities must not lose their humanity while protecting themselves. Vita activa in Jackson’s context is not just physical labor and building but also deciding how to treat outsiders. In this New Year’s council meeting, the fate of Jackson’s collective soul is on the line. The scene ends without resolution, an uneasy balance between aiding newcomers and fretting about the future. This sets up a recurring thematic thread: can a bastion of civilization remain truly humane when resources run low? Jackson’s approach to refugees and outcasts will continue to reflect its internal moral landscape—just as a society’s deepest values shine through in how it treats its most vulnerable. In Episode 1, the mirror reveals both a hopeful image (a functioning, friendly town) and a crack (nervous glances at the gates).
The Overgrown World: Symbolism of Decay and Threat
In the post-pandemic setting, nature’s reclamation of human spaces—vines strangling ruins, roots breaking through concrete—functions as a powerful symbol of psychological erosion and hidden dangers. From a collapsed supermarket to roots clogging Jackson’s pipes, this creeping vegetation is more than atmospheric apocalypse dressing; it serves as a metaphorical layer expressing the characters’ inner states and the condition of civilization itself. As the symbolism scholar Manfred Lurker and others have shown, physical ruins often signify the transience of human achievements and the decay of old orders. In “Future Days,” every moss-covered wall and crumbling building silently reminds us of the moral and psychological disintegration the characters are facing. Joel and Ellie’s trust, for instance, is corroding like rusted pipes; unacknowledged trauma meanders through their lives like invasive roots beneath Jackson. The environment mirrors their psyches: outwardly, they have safety and structure (as Jackson does with its solid walls and electricity), yet beneath the surface, unseen tendrils from the past spread through the soil.
Discovering active strands of Cordyceps in a gas line toward the end of the episode is a stark image of a lurking threat beneath a veneer of stability. Psychologically, we might view that as the buried lie (Joel’s secret) that remains alive, ready to poison the system at any moment. It’s as though the earth itself is holding its breath, waiting for truth—or infection—to emerge.
In literature and art, overgrown ruins can symbolize both decay and the potential for rebirth. Grass and ivy swallowing a city street suggest that nature endures beyond human folly, but they also convey profound loss—a world going on without us. In this episode, overgrowth takes on a menacing air. The decrepit supermarket is literally a trap for Ellie and Dina; its weakened floors collapse, and a lurking Infected prowls in its dark aisles. The setting implies that things left to rot (a building, an emotion) will eventually cave in. Ellie falls through the floor because the structure is compromised—a parallel to how she and Joel risk letting their relationship collapse if they don’t address the rot. The cunning Infected that hides among the shelves reflects a new level of danger, as if shaped by its environment: it’s a manifestation of hidden trauma. Ignored cracks—whether in a ceiling or in a relationship—grow into bigger threats. That Ellie is bitten again (harmless to her physically, aside from another scar) underscores how the past may continue to leave marks without outright destroying her.
Lurker’s symbolic interpretations might lead us to see the rampant vegetation as representing the unconscious or the return of repressed forces. Just as weeds inevitably burst through asphalt, suppressed guilt or grief eventually comes to light. Joel’s attempt to bury his past violence is like trying to keep weeds out of a garden—doomed unless you pull them up by the roots. The roots in Jackson’s pipeline pose a literal danger (potential contamination or outbreak), just as Joel’s secret poses social danger (the potential collapse of his bond with Ellie or violent conflicts with others like Abby). Nature here is two-sided: it’s beautiful that green life persists in ruins, but in this world that new growth is often the Cordyceps fungus—nature turned nightmare. That dual symbolism resonates with the duality of the characters themselves. Ellie’s immunity is a wondrous anomaly born from infection, yet some might deem it monstrous if misunderstood. Joel’s love for Ellie sprouted from the soil of his grief, but it grew deadly thorns.
Throughout the episode, the camera lingers on environmental details—spore-laced motes drifting in sunlight, gutted structures overtaken by trees, the flicker of Jackson’s boundary lights against the mountains. These images reinforce the idea that the world itself is a character reflecting and foreshadowing. The overgrown realm externalizes society’s collapse and the inner collapse the characters are constantly staving off. When Ellie and Dina stumble on a bear carcass and an Infected tangled in wild vines, the natural and unnatural merge—much like Ellie’s own fate (a human partially intertwined with a fungus, immune but forever marked).
This layered ecological storytelling aligns with Lurker’s view that physical symbols carry “latent possibilities for meaning” and truth. The ruins, in other words, whisper truths the characters have yet to voice: Everything you’ve built can crumble. What you bury will force its way to the surface. New life emerges from old death, but not all new growth is benign. “Future Days” employs its overgrown apocalypse aesthetic as both a memento mori and a warning, creating a mood of disquieting beauty that reflects the story’s emotional landscape—hope and love struggling to grow through the rubble.
Psychological Interpretation
Joel’s Fragmented Psyche and Buried Guilt
Joel’s psychology in this episode exemplifies inner fracture. Externally, he presents himself as tough and competent, yet inside he is torn between his role as Ellie’s father figure and the tormented man who cannot reconcile his past actions with his conscience. Clues to Joel’s turmoil are everywhere: his sleepless face, his near-desperate need for therapy (kept secret out of pride), his overreaction when he shoves the homophobic man at the dance, and above all his inability to be emotionally open with Ellie. He is plagued by suppressed guilt—a hallmark of Freudian repression. Rather than face the enormity of what he did (killing many, preventing a cure) or the possibility of Ellie’s anger, he’s pushed it all into his unconscious. But as Freud famously argued, repressed emotions never truly sleep; they resurface in indirect ways. Joel’s anxious guardianship is one such symptom—he hovers over Ellie, tries to keep her out of harm’s way (removing her from patrols, intervening in her conflicts), as if constantly proving to himself, “I saved her, so it was worth it.” He’s almost compulsively reliving that rescue moment to justify his past decision.
In his therapy session with Gail, Joel’s reluctance to dig deeper speaks volumes. He skirts around the central issue, as Gail notes, using clinical detachment to avoid naming the root cause of his distress. He cannot bring himself to say out loud, “I killed people to save Ellie.” Freud would interpret Joel’s defensive silence as resistance—his ego protecting itself from shame and pain by refusing to acknowledge those forbidden thoughts. Yet the unconscious finds its voice: Joel’s hands tremble slightly whenever Ellie is mentioned, he lingers over a pair of boots (a trigger for guilt about someone he wronged), and eventually blurts out, “I saved her,” then flees the session. That outburst is the tip of the iceberg, hinting at the depth of Joel’s repressed guilt. It’s telling that Gail shares her own unresolved feelings (her anger toward Joel) to coax him out—an attempt to get him to face reality. Joel cannot, which reveals a psyche at war with itself. Part of him knows he must come clean; another part fears that doing so would cost him the love that keeps him alive (Ellie’s affection).
Joel’s inner split also shows in the way he compartmentalizes his identity. In Jackson, he presents as a reliable community leader, joking with Tommy, doting on Tommy’s baby, doing honest labor. But the shadow-self lurks just underneath—the hardened killer, the grieving father who never truly healed. The smallest provocation, like Seth’s insult to Ellie, brings Joel’s shadow roaring to the surface (he’s instantly ready for violence). His response is disproportionate, almost reflexive—a trauma response. He’s still psychologically stuck in that Salt Lake City operating room with gunshots echoing in his ears. He hasn’t processed his traumatic memories; he’s simply sealed them off, allowing him to function day to day until something scratches at the scab. When Ellie berates him for intervening, Joel’s face shows not just hurt but deep shame. Her anger confirms his worst fear about himself—that he might be a monster who did something unforgivable and is unworthy of her respect.
Thus, Joel’s psyche is a house divided: the loving protector and the violent avenger. He hasn’t managed to integrate these halves. Jung would call it a failure of individuation; put simply, Joel is a man who has lost his self-respect and lives solely for another person, which is precarious psychologically. If Ellie ever rejects him (and she’s gradually moving in that direction), Joel risks imploding, lacking any bedrock of self-forgiveness. By episode’s end, he remains mired in this painful stalemate—we empathize with his torment even as we see the reckoning to come. His raw fragility, hidden behind stoic eyes, makes Joel one of TV’s most human “hero figures”—a testament to how saving the world (or saving one life) can shatter a person just as easily as it can redeem them.
Ellie’s Struggle Between Independence and Connection
Ellie’s psychology is dominated by a tug-of-war between fierce independence and her deep (though wounded) bond with Joel. This dynamic is common among teenagers separating from parental figures, but her situation is magnified by trauma and the unique secret of her immunity. On one hand, Ellie craves self-reliance. She bristles at any suggestion she needs coddling—whether Joel pushing to keep her off patrols or Dina acting as if she has to protect her. Ellie’s pride surfaces whenever someone tries to “handle” her. For instance, when Tommy confesses Joel asked him to give her easier tasks, Ellie immediately rejects any special treatment. Autonomy is paramount to her, partly because she grew up with so little control (orphaned, sent to military school, then handed off from one guardian to another). Now she insists on making her own choices, even if they’re dangerous. Her solo hunts for Infected suggest she might be testing herself, proving she doesn’t need Joel or anyone else to survive. It could also be a form of survivor’s guilt—perhaps a part of Ellie feels she deserved to die for the cure, so she courts death in smaller doses. In any event, her behavior screams independence.
Yet beneath that tough surface, Ellie still deeply loves and longs for Joel’s honesty and approval. Her anger toward him is so intense precisely because she cares so much. If she were truly indifferent, his lie wouldn’t cut her so deeply. We see this bond in quiet glances she sneaks at Joel when he’s not looking—hoping he might finally tell her the truth. Or in the hurt in her eyes when she spits out “I don’t need your help,” but is really stung that he derailed her happy moment at the dance. From a psychological standpoint, Ellie is experiencing a rupture of attachment, akin to a parent-teen disconnect, layered with the trauma of betrayal. She trusted Joel completely, and now there’s a crack. So she oscillates between explosive outbursts (to punish him, to assert control) and a silent yearning for the way things used to be (e.g., she keeps the guitar he gave her—she hasn’t really cut the cord). When Joel re-strings her guitar and offers it as a wordless peace gesture, Ellie’s reaction says it all: she doesn’t smash it or throw it away; she’s just not ready to forgive, so she brushes past him. But the connection lingers—the music literally links them, and she can’t quite bring herself to break that chord.
Ellie’s psyche also bears survivor’s guilt and loneliness, which complicates her bond with Joel. He is the one who deemed her life more valuable than anyone else’s, so in a sense Joel validates her existence as profoundly important. That’s a confusing legacy. She’s furious that he lied, but part of her might also be grateful (consciously or not) that he saved her. This triggers guilt: how can she resent him for loving her so much? Thus, her feelings churn in turmoil. She exiles herself to the garage, partly to punish Joel, partly to punish herself. That garage—full of her memories, her journal—becomes her personal island where she can sort through her emotions away from the man who caused them. Her attachment style, in psychological terms, is shifting from secure (when she had full faith in Joel) to anxious or avoidant. She’s unsure she can trust him but also fears losing him. At episode’s end, Ellie watches Joel on the porch with her newly fixed guitar. Their eyes meet in silence. In that moment, all her tangled love and hurt condenses—neither can truly walk away. Ellie storms back inside, revealing both her anger and her dread of being vulnerable enough to reconcile.
In essence, Ellie’s struggle is the classic push-and-pull of “I need you” versus “I need to be free of you.” It’s a heartbreaking dance familiar to any parent-child relationship under strain, but in this apocalyptic setting, it’s dialed up to eleven. Ellie is trying to grow up—define herself beyond “Joel’s kid” or “Joel’s mission”—and that inevitably involves rebellion and distance. But healthy growth also requires understanding and integration. Ellie hasn’t reached that final phase. For now, anger and independence serve as her shields. It’s easier to say, “I don’t need you,” than to admit, “You hurt me because I love you.” The episode immerses us in Ellie’s turmoil. We admire her self-reliance—her willingness to fight, her open affection for Dina, her intolerance for bigots—but we also sense the child within who was forced to grow up too quickly and might secretly wish Joel would just hold her and say, “I’m sorry,” and make the nightmares stop. That part, like the newly bitten arm she hides under a bandage, remains concealed. Season 2 will no doubt see Ellie ripping off that emotional bandage.
Abby’s Revenge as a Play of Light and Shadow
Although Abby appears only briefly in the prologue and closing scene, her presence as both mirror and shadow to our protagonists looms large. Psychologically, Abby represents the dark path of vengeance—the fate Ellie (and Joel) could easily share if they surrender to their worst impulses. We see a young woman consumed by the need to avenge her father’s death at Joel’s hands. That thirst for retribution is unwavering; she’s willing to traverse the country, join militant groups, do whatever it takes to hunt down the man responsible. Her obsession exacts a psychological toll: it isolates her emotionally (friends like Owen worry but still aid her) and traps her identity in the trauma (above all, she’s “the grieving daughter driven by revenge”).
Abby’s psychology hints at what Ellie might become under different circumstances—should Joel be killed (a grim possibility we can sense), Ellie might end up in the same position of vengeful fury, defined by loss. In Jungian terms, Abby can be seen as an archetypal shadow for both Joel and Ellie. For Joel, she is the literal consequence of his shadow behavior—he took violent actions that now return in the form of Abby’s quest for payback. She forces Joel (and us) to acknowledge that from another vantage point, he’s a villain who destroyed someone else’s world. For Ellie, Abby is a reflection of anger. Ellie’s own rage at Joel is partially contained by their bond, but if Joel were gone, that fury might erupt fully in a quest for violence. Abby shows us the unrestrained version—cold, determined, and dangerously consuming. It’s a bitter irony that, in the opening scene, Abby can hardly persuade her companions to chase Joel immediately because it’s “impractical.” She resists any delay. Likewise, in the story of “The Last of Us Part II,” Ellie will become similarly impatient for revenge. The seeds are planted in Episode 1: Ellie’s aggressive pursuit of stray Infected already channels her suppressed anger, possibly directed at Joel or life itself. It’s a small stand-in for the kind of bloodlust that could escalate if unchecked.
Narratively and psychologically, Abby serves as a contrast figure highlighting the theme of justice vs. mercy and the cycle of violence. In her eyes, killing Joel is justice, finalizing her trauma. For an audience loyal to Joel and Ellie, this is cognitive dissonance—suddenly we see how one violent act begets another in an endless loop. Psychologically, this cycle speaks to intergenerational trauma: Joel’s trauma (losing his daughter to violence) drove him to a violent solution (saving Ellie by killing Abby’s father), which created Abby’s trauma, fueling her violence. It’s a tragic feedback loop. Ellie may be next—Abby’s violence might become Ellie’s trauma, igniting yet another revenge quest. Recognizing this pattern is key to breaking it. Someone must choose forgiveness or relinquish hate—an immense psychological feat in such an unforgiving world.
For now, Abby is mostly symbolic in Episode 1. She mourns the fallen Fireflies, warns her group that they must confront Joel eventually. In the final shot, she literally stands on a hillside overlooking Jackson’s lights—a storm on the horizon in human form. Psychologically, it portends doom that will test Joel and Ellie’s mental resilience. Abby is essentially the embodiment of unresolved trauma returning. For Joel, she’s his past come back to judge him. For Ellie, she’s a future that might claim her if she loses Joel or yields to rage. Thus, Abby functions as both a stand-alone character and a thematic mirror. Showing her perspective so early encourages us to empathize with “the enemy,” a move that deepens the story’s complexity. She isn’t a mindless monster stalking our heroes—she’s a deeply wounded individual whose pain reflects Ellie’s own potential sorrow. In that sense, Abby and Ellie are two sides of one coin, just as Joel and the surgeon/father Abby lost were two sides of another. The stage is set for an emotionally charged confrontation in which both sides see their darkest selves in the other. The genius of this setup is that it forces characters (and the audience) to face the uncomfortable truth: in a shattered world, today’s savior can be tomorrow’s villain, and the line between justice and revenge is perilously thin.
Philosophical Reflection
Truth and Lies in an Absurd World
One of the core philosophical questions “Future Days” poses is: what is truth worth in a world where survival often depends on lies? Joel’s lie to Ellie about the Fireflies, Ellie’s own lie by omission (concealing the bite and her disbelief in Joel’s story), even Jackson’s polite façades (maintaining harmony while tensions brew) all illustrate how deception is woven into the fabric of survival. From an existentialist standpoint, this evokes Albert Camus’s notion of the absurd. Camus argued that humans live in a fundamentally irrational world and frequently cling to comforting illusions rather than confront the harsh truth. Joel’s lie is exactly that—a comforting deception intended to spare Ellie (and himself) the despair of what really happened. By telling her there’s “no cure,” he attempts to erase the unbearable possibility that her sacrifice—and the deaths he caused—might have had a purpose or meaning. Yet as Camus would caution, escaping truth comes at the cost of authenticity. Camus maintained that we should face the absurdity of existence without retreating into illusions.
The fallout of Joel’s lie exemplifies Camus’s stance: the lie “worked” in the short term—Ellie returned safely with Joel to Jackson—but it corroded their trust and sense of meaning. The world didn’t become any less irrational or unfair just because Joel imposed a false narrative. Instead, the truth festered underneath, creating absurd situations: a father and daughter figure who love each other yet can’t speak openly. It’s a classic Camus-style dilemma: they yearn for genuine connection, but acknowledging reality might break them. So Joel opts for silence, deepening their estrangement. In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus discusses the inner revolt against absurdity, urging us to live authentically “in defiance” of life’s meaningless conditions. Joel does the opposite: he embraces a lie to avoid the sense of absurdity (that the world would sacrifice a teenage girl for a cure, that all his pain might be for nothing). Ellie, on the receiving end of that lie, drifts in an existential limbo—she knows something’s off, that her survival no longer has a clear purpose.
“Future Days” asks whether honesty is a virtue or a luxury after civilization collapses. Was Joel justified in lying to spare a broken-hearted girl and let her have a “normal” life? Plenty in Jackson might say yes; even viewers could sympathize. And yet the show suggests that lying, however well-intentioned, has toxic side effects. Affection between Joel and Ellie withers under the shadow of this deceit. Ellie’s agency is also compromised—Joel effectively treated her like a child, denying her the choice or the reality, precisely when this world demands everyone to grow up fast. Existentially, he denied Ellie her freedom to confront her own destiny, an act of bad faith, even if born of love.
We also see a related tension of pragmatism versus principle: Jackson likely runs on minor untruths or omissions (few know Ellie’s secret, few know the lengths Joel went to). This mirrors how in Camus’s The Plague, authorities hide facts for the “public good,” only to discover the move backfires. In a broken world, truth becomes a precarious commodity—dangerous to handle, easily lost. By the end of the episode, it feels as though truth (Joel’s confession) is straining to surface. His therapy scene, Ellie’s blunt questions, even Maria’s callouts about Joel’s past, all show reality seeping into the comfortable fiction. Camus might have praised the courage of facing it. If “The Last of Us” has an ethos here, it might be that only through facing the truth can these characters find any real meaning or redemption, painful though it may be. As in Camus, we might imagine Joel and Ellie must eventually wage a revolt against the easy lie in order to live fully—even if that revolt shatters their relationship first.
The Ambiguity of Loyalty in a Broken World
Loyalty is traditionally seen as a virtue—devotion to family, friends, or a cause is considered noble. Yet “The Last of Us” repeatedly asks: when does loyalty become a vice in a world turned upside down? Joel’s loyalty to Ellie is absolute and, in many ways, beautiful; it was the emotional core of Season 1. But in Episode 1 of Season 2, we see the dark side: Joel’s unwavering devotion led him to kill innocent people and possibly forfeit humanity’s one chance at a cure. It raises a moral paradox: was his loyalty an ethical good or a catastrophic selfishness?
This discomfort is deliberate. Philosophically, it recalls the debate between particularism and universalism: is it right to prioritize one’s beloved over the greater good? The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy calls loyalty a “problematic virtue”—celebrated in personal relationships but often clashing with impartial moral duties. Joel embodies that dilemma. His loyalty to “his own” (Ellie, formerly Tommy) conflicts with any broader loyalty to humankind or moral principles. He chose the particular (Ellie) over the universal (a cure), at once profoundly human and ethically fraught.
The episode also explores loyalty in Jackson. In the refugee debate, there’s an implicit loyalty test—Joel wants them to protect their people first, while Maria suggests a wider loyalty to human decency. Jackson thrives on strong internal loyalty (people like Jesse, Dina, and Tommy share genuine trust), yet that same loyalty can create an us-versus-them mentality. Joel’s comment, “our own,” is telling; it defines who deserves compassion. History and philosophy offer countless parallels: loyalty to a nation can spur wars, loyalty to friends can lead to cronyism or cover-ups. Tommy exemplifies conflicting loyalties—his allegiance to Jackson and Maria vs. his blood tie to Joel. When Joel asks him to exclude Ellie from patrols, Tommy complies out of brotherly loyalty, even though it’s arguably unfair (Ellie has earned her place). He looks torn because he senses he’s placing personal loyalty above an equal standard for all.
Ellie’s loyalty is also in flux. She remains loyal enough to Joel not to expose his lie or abandon him, but her trust is shaken. Meanwhile, she might rekindle loyalty to Riley or Tess—the people who stood for the cause of finding a cure—once she learns the truth. The show gently reminds us of the Fireflies: Ellie bears her bite scar from that fateful day with Riley, while Abby’s presence resurrects the entire network of loyalties Joel severed. It’s as if the series is setting up a chain reaction of colliding loyalties: Ellie’s loyalty to Joel vs. the bigger cause (once she discovers his deception), Abby’s loyalty to her father, and so on.
We’re left to wonder if loyalty here is more burden than virtue. The answer is situational. In a dangerous world, loyalty can be lifesaving—knowing someone has your back is priceless. Without Joel’s unwavering devotion, Ellie would have died in that hospital; without Ellie’s hidden loyalty, she might have abandoned Joel. Loyalty also provides meaning. After losing his daughter, Joel found a renewed sense of purpose in his bond with Ellie. In Frankl’s terms, it was his “why” to keep living. But the downside is glaring: loyalty can override moral judgment. Joel’s hospital rampage was arguably irrational from a utilitarian stance, driven solely by personal attachment. We see a smaller-scale example in Dina and Jesse’s dynamic—a romantic on/off loyalty that complicates Ellie’s friendship. Even Seth’s homophobic outburst touches loyalty: he accuses the girls of ruining a “family” event, implying an in-group loyalty that excludes them. Joel’s instant defense of Ellie is admirable loyalty, but it embarrasses her, showing that even loyal acts can backfire when unwanted.
Philosophers like Josiah Royce esteemed loyalty as a supreme moral good (“loyalty to loyalty”), while utilitarians often view it with suspicion. The episode doesn’t moralize; it presents a messy moral gray zone through story. Perhaps the clearest takeaway is that blind loyalty—left unexamined—can be dangerous. The Stanford Encyclopedia notes that loyalty’s worth depends on the cause to which one is devoted and the actions it justifies. If the cause is noble (protecting an innocent), loyalty is heroic; if it perpetuates harm, loyalty becomes complicity. Joel saved Ellie (noble) but also killed others (potentially not noble). Abby wants to avenge her father (understandable), yet her loyalty to vengeance may require murder. The show consistently frames loyalty as ambivalent. It gives Joel and Ellie something to live for while also sowing the seeds of tragic choices. A broken world tests loyalty to its limits, forcing our protagonists to wonder if they can stay loyal to the people they love “at any cost” or if they owe loyalty to a higher principle that transcends personal bonds. In this moral conflict, no choice comes without blood on someone’s hands.
Security vs. Autonomy: The Illusion of Safety
With its electric fences, tidy streets, and communal dinners, Jackson seems like a haven of security in an unsafe world. Yet as Episode 1 subtly reveals, that security may be an illusion, fueling a philosophical tension between safety and freedom. The people of Jackson have formed a social contract: they follow certain rules (curfews, work assignments, patrol schedules) in exchange for protection behind high walls. This arrangement echoes Thomas Hobbes’s idea that we trade absolute freedom for the order provided by a “Leviathan.” For most Jackson residents, it’s a fair exchange—after years of terror, a normal life under the settlement’s governance is precious. But the episode drops hints of Jackson’s vulnerability. While residents toast the new year with music and drink, real threats brew in secret. A resilient strain of infection creeps through a pipeline; Abby’s armed group eyes the settlement from the dark forests beyond. We, the audience, see what Jackson’s citizens do not: the danger hasn’t been vanquished. Dramatic irony underscores a timeless philosophical problem: how much should we trust in any promise of safety, and at what cost?
On a personal level, Joel and Ellie embody the clash between security and autonomy. Joel, finally finding some measure of peace in Jackson, clings to it—even if it means restricting Ellie’s autonomy. His wish to keep her off patrols comes from that longing for guaranteed safety (and from trauma; he can’t bear to lose another daughter). Joel essentially believes in Jackson’s promise: here, we can keep loved ones safe by minimizing risk. Ellie is the counterpoint—she refuses that paternalistic control. In her view, real living demands freedom, facing danger rather than opting for the cozy security of a front porch. She doesn’t fully trust the illusions of safety, perhaps sensing instinctively how quickly they can vanish. Philosophically, this is the eternal debate between younger generations who crave liberty and older guardians who see risk everywhere. Is it better to live a risky life on your own terms, or remain secure under constant watch?
Collectively, Jackson’s autonomy is also in question. The settlement is partly democratic, but survival compels conformity. Individuals must surrender some personal choice (accept assigned roles, abide by the council’s rulings) for stability. Most do so gladly—anything is preferable to the lawless wilderness. But the series wonders: at what point does the comfort of walls become a cage? There’s a subtle scene where Ellie and Jesse gripe about the party’s ritualistic quality, capturing the teenage distaste for the routines of settled life. Meanwhile, Dina—free-spirited and bold—actually craves the adrenaline of venturing outside. For those raised amid chaos, Jackson’s peace can feel stifling—they’re not even sure how to live in ongoing safety and might unconsciously sabotage it. This parallels real-world experiences of soldiers or disaster survivors who find it hard to adapt to peacetime, sometimes seeking new conflicts or thrill-seeking because it’s where they feel most purposeful.
In a broader philosophical frame, Jackson’s scenario recalls Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s warning that civilization, while protecting us, can also shackle us. The townspeople enjoy security but now face social strains—resource debates, prejudice (as shown by Seth’s homophobic remark), and enforced norms (no drunken brawling in public). The illusion of perfect safety can foster complacency and intolerance: Seth’s outburst suggests a desire for “social purity,” reminiscent of old-world bigotry. Meanwhile, real threats go unnoticed—until Ellie and Dina report an odd Infected in the supermarket, Jackson’s council nearly wants to hope the problem solves itself. That complacency is precisely what nature and fate often punish. By episode’s end, we realize Jackson is due for a brutal awakening.
Philosophically, we might say that security is never a static achievement but an ongoing negotiation. The people of Jackson must find a balance between vigilance and freedom, comfort and honesty. Joel’s personal journey illustrates the perils of relying too heavily on false security. He believed he could secure Ellie’s future with a lie and a walled city, but he’s only postponed the crisis. The absurd truth (to borrow from Camus) is that in a chaotic world, no refuge is permanent, no lie remains buried forever. One can spend years constructing a “normal life”—a nice home, routines, a community—only for it to unravel in a single night. Does that mean it’s all in vain? Not necessarily, but “The Last of Us” implies one must reconcile security with readiness, comfort with candor. Ellie’s insistence on patrolling, even as Jackson tries to shield her, is a form of existential authenticity—she refuses to be lulled by illusions. By contrast, Joel’s attempt to blend into a cheerful party and ignore his internal alarms is undone by Seth’s slur and Ellie’s fury. The world isn’t ready to let him rest on his laurels.
Hence, the episode presents security as a deceptive mirage: vital for sanity, yet dangerous if taken for granted. True security might require granting people like Ellie the autonomy to act and grow, rather than confining them. And it certainly demands a clear-eyed acceptance that walls can be breached and lies exposed. “Future Days” argues that in a fractured world, a life of freedom and truth—no matter how risky—may be more authentically human than a life of cozy denial or a padded cell of false security. Jackson’s lights glow brightly, but they cast long shadows—and in those shadows, uncertainty flourishes.
Social Subtext
Refugees, Resources, and the Fear of the Other
Beyond its personal and philosophical layers, “The Last of Us” often serves as social commentary, and “Future Days” resonates with contemporary debates in striking ways. The scene in which Jackson’s leaders argue over admitting refugees mirrors real-world discussions about immigration, resource scarcity, and community identity. Maria’s worry—“there isn’t enough space or food for all of them”—echoes the rhetoric we hear repeatedly in actual refugee crises or migration controversies. Joel’s harsher stance—prioritizing “our own” people—reflects a fear-based, insular mindset akin to nationalist or nativist attitudes that surface in tough times. There is genuine resource scarcity in both the show and reality, yet it can also become a convenient rationale for prejudice. The show compels us to see both sides: Jackson does have limited capacity (just as nations have limited budgets or housing), but the moral test lies in how they respond to fellow human beings in need. Maria reminding Joel, “You used to be a refugee yourself,” is akin to reminding countries or families of their immigrant past or humanitarian ideals. It’s a call to empathy over expediency.
Furthermore, the series engages the fear of contagion—literally and metaphorically—that often underlies xenophobia. In Jackson’s world, outsiders could carry infection or spark unrest. In our world, migrants are sometimes (wrongly) labeled disease carriers or criminals. The episode subtly mirrors Jackson’s gate protocol: armed guards, wary looks, as if any battered traveler might harbor a lethal pathogen. This aligns with a classic xenophobic trope treating outsiders as a biological threat—something we’ve seen throughout history (stigmatizing newcomers during pandemics, for example). Yet the plot reveals the real infection in Jackson arises internally through neglected roots in the pipeline, ironically after Joel advocates keeping refugees out. The moral is painful: while societies worry about “the stranger at the gate,” the real danger often lurks in their own failures or in nature itself. The implicit message is that shutting the door on people in distress may not actually safeguard you—it merely shrinks your humanity without guaranteeing security.
The subplot about refugees also resonates with Hannah Arendt’s concept of “the right to have rights.” In The Origins of Totalitarianism, Arendt discusses how refugees lose the framework in which rights are recognized. Jackson is one of the few places left that can grant the stateless any semblance of rights and dignity. If it fails, those refugees remain in limbo, effectively stripped of personhood. Viewed through Arendt, allowing the refugees in would be a political act affirming shared humanity, whereas shutting them out might keep Jackson physically safe for a while but degrade its moral core. These same dilemmas play out in our modern world: do well-off nations honor human rights by opening their doors, or do they seal their borders and risk moral decay?
The episode further touches on identity politics through Ellie’s queerness, which becomes a flashpoint when Seth hurls a slur. Even in a post-apocalyptic commune, old bigotries die hard. This demonstrates how pre-collapse prejudices can persist in new societies—an implicit reminder that rebuilding isn’t solely about infrastructure or food, but also about confronting harmful social attitudes. Maria swiftly defends the girls, and Joel rages on Ellie’s behalf, showing that Jackson’s leadership doesn’t tolerate such hostility—yet the incident reveals that not everyone in town shares inclusive values. This parallels present-day communities where an official stance of tolerance coexists with individual intolerance. It’s a realistic portrayal of a community in microcosm, bridging generational and cultural divides.
Strikingly, the show weaves these social issues into the Cordyceps theme. Seth essentially implies Ellie and Dina “contaminate” the family event by dancing together—mirroring the homophobic trope that LGBTQ+ affection “corrupts” children’s spaces. The show calls out the same irrational fear-of-the-Other at Jackson’s gate or in a homophobic remark: new arrivals or LGBTQ+ couples are perceived as a threat to some notion of purity or safety. It’s exactly how xenophobia and discrimination operate in our world. By placing these details in a post-apocalyptic narrative, the series highlights how fear and prejudice remain lethal social pathogens even after society’s collapse. Yet it also demonstrates how compassion and solidarity persist, as Maria and Joel stand up for Ellie and Dina.
Thus, the social subtext of “Future Days” is as layered as its character drama. Jackson is more than a setting; it’s a social experiment tackling migration, scarcity, and identity politics in miniature—a reflection of our real world. The apocalypse just distills these issues to their raw essence. The debate at Jackson’s dinner table could be a United Nations assembly or a family discussion about hosting refugees. The language is the same: do we have room, can we afford it, what if they bring danger? The show reveals how timeless these fears are. Yet it also offers glimpses of empathy and solidarity, equally ingrained in the human condition. In a world ravaged by a literal infection, the metaphorical infections of hatred and fear may be worse. Jackson’s future (and perhaps any society’s) hinges on how it handles both forms of contagion.
Identity and Exclusion in Jackson’s Mini-World
Hand in hand with the refugee theme is a broader examination of identity and exclusion in community life. Jackson, as a self-contained world, raises the question: who counts as “us,” and who gets labeled “them”? That’s the core of identity politics. Communities often coalesce around shared identity markers—in Jackson’s case, simply being a resident who contributes. Outsiders, whether refugees, ex-Fireflies, or someone like Abby’s group, fall into an out-group. The tension between Maria’s and Joel’s views on refugees stems from their different conceptions of Jackson’s identity. Maria tends to see Jackson as a humanitarian beacon—civilization reborn—whereas Joel frames Jackson as a tight-knit fortress for insiders only. This clash is fundamentally political: it’s about who the community aspires to be.
On a personal scale, we witness Ellie and Dina navigating identity. Ellie’s queerness is integral to who she is, and Jackson’s generally tolerant environment allows her to express it (dancing close with Dina) —a small miracle in a world otherwise ravaged by chaos. But prejudice still lingers, as we see with Seth. That single ugly moment doesn’t define Jackson, but it forces the settlement to take a stance. Maria compels Seth to apologize, which reasserts Jackson’s more accepting identity. It’s encouraging to see that progressive values can survive even after civilization’s fall—thanks, perhaps, to leaders like Maria (a woman of color in power, likely invested in equality).
Another layer of identity politics is the lingering question of Firefly vs. non-Firefly. Though it’s not overt in this episode, it’s hinted at. Some refugees might be former Fireflies or belong to rival factions. Can Jackson integrate individuals who once fought on different sides? In the first season, we learned that Tommy used to be a Firefly; perhaps that history shapes Maria’s guardedness toward strangers with unknown allegiances. Real-world parallels are numerous—reintegration of ex-combatants, bridging divides after civil conflict. Jackson must forge a collective identity that transcends old loyalties if it hopes to thrive. Indeed, the show’s entire premise—an apocalypse—asks what remains of our humanity when society collapses. Jackson’s social fabric—whether it becomes inclusive or exclusive, open or closed—will be the measure of that humanity.
We also see how the fear of “social contagion” shapes Jackson’s attempts to preserve its way of life. Strict social codes (no drunken outbursts, no bigotry that goes unaddressed) might be seen as moral quarantine, preventing old-world toxicity from taking root. The same can be said of other, more subtle forms of control—patrol rosters, watch rotations. This is reminiscent of how post-crisis communities (in our own world) try to establish a “new normal,” often hoping to avoid the prejudices and chaos that led to disaster in the first place. Yet human nature creeps back in. Seth’s prejudice, Joel’s concealed violence, potential corruption or nepotism (Joel influencing Tommy behind Maria’s back)—all prove Jackson isn’t a utopia. Politics, big “P” and small “p,” swirl around. Who gets first dibs on housing? Who decides resource distribution? The emerging tension between Joel and Maria over these very issues shows how quickly idealism can clash with real-world complexity.
In essence, Jackson’s identity politics revolve around boundary-drawing—between insiders and outsiders, between current community values and the baggage of the past. This episode only begins that conversation but does so deftly. Ellie concealing her fresh bite from the town medic is a microcosm of how people hide aspects of themselves (sexuality, beliefs, conditions) to avoid stigma. She is, as far as we know, the only immune person alive; that uniqueness isolates her, so she chooses not to reveal it, seeking normalcy. It’s reminiscent of how real individuals in marginalized communities often mask certain traits (be it sexual orientation, religion, or illness) to evade exclusion. Ellie remains an insider with a secret, hoping no one discovers she’s inexorably different.
“Future Days” thereby acknowledges that identity politics persist, even after society’s downfall. Jackson tries to rebuild with fairness and solidarity but grapples with old biases, limited resources, and uncertain loyalties. While it offers a vision of communal resilience, it also highlights the cracks: not everyone embraces the same values, and prejudice can fester. Whether Jackson rises to these challenges will determine whether it’s truly a new civilization or just another gated camp. The episode leaves us with the sense that identity and belonging—who is “us,” who is “them”—remain as contentious as ever, even when the world is in ruins.
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