Abraham Lincoln and Scarlett Johansson are stuck in Underground Bunker in a False Alarm and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Well now, Miss Johansson, this here bunker ain't exactly Ford's Theatre, is it?" Lincoln drawled, adjusting his stovepipe hat.

Scarlett sighed, leaning against the cold concrete wall. "No, Mr. President, it lacks the… drama. Though I suppose existential dread is a kind of theater in itself."

"Indeed," Lincoln replied thoughtfully. "It seems we are all actors upon a stage, even beneath the earth."

"Do you think people will remember us, even after the sirens fade?" she asked, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

"Remembering is a fickle business, Miss Johansson, but leaving behind something worth remembering, that's the true challenge."

"Like fighting for what's right, even when the odds are stacked against you?" Scarlett prompted.

"Precisely," Lincoln affirmed. "A nation, like a career, is built on conviction, even if it causes division."

Scarlett smiled faintly. "Easier said than done, when the world keeps changing the script."

"Change is the only constant, Miss Johansson," Lincoln said. "It's how we adapt, how we rise to meet it, that defines us."

"Maybe that's what makes life worth living, even in a bunker," Scarlett concluded, looking up at the ceiling with a newfound resolve.