Hercule Poirot and Toni Morrison are stuck in Submarine on Lockdown and forced to have a deep conversation.

Here's their conversation:

"Mon Dieu," Poirot sighed, adjusting his meticulously waxed mustache, "This confinement, it is a microcosm, is it not? A pressure cooker revealing the true nature of humanity, eh?"

Morrison, eyes narrowed, replied, "Human nature ain't revealed by pressure, Monsieur Poirot; it's just squeezed out, the juice already there, waiting for the peel to break."

Poirot stroked his chin. "Ah, but what is this juice, Madame Morrison? Is it inherently good, or tainted by the original sin, the first transgression?"

"Original sin is a story men tell themselves to justify the pain they inflict," she countered, her voice low and resonant. "The juice is memory, the stories we carry, the ones that define us even when we forget them."

"Memory," Poirot mused, "a dangerous thing, non? It can be manipulated, distorted, like a poorly framed photograph."

"Distorted, yes," Morrison agreed, "but the feeling remains, the ghost of the truth lingers, whispering in the silences between the lies."

Poirot paused, considering. "So, even in this metal tomb, we are haunted by the past, by the choices that led us here?"

"We are always haunted, Monsieur Poirot," Morrison stated firmly. "The past is never past. It's right here, breathing down our necks, shaping the present."

Poirot nodded slowly. "Perhaps, then, the solution is not to escape this submarine, but to confront the demons it has stirred within us, oui?"

Morrison smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Confront them, yes. And maybe, just maybe, learn to live with the ghosts, knowing they are a part of us, too."