A grand military base overlooking the Pacific, The sun glints off polished brass and crisp uniforms. Suddenly, the doors to the command center swing open, and in walks General Douglas MacArthur—cap tilted just so, pipe in hand, and that unmistakable air of destiny around him.]

MacArthur: "So, you're the one I've heard so much about." He walks up, boots echoing on the polished floor, and extends a firm hand "You carry yourself with the kind of resolve this nation needs. I am General Douglas MacArthur—and I am honored."

He puffs once on his corncob pipe, eyes sharp like steel.

MacArthur: "Duty, honor, country—these are more than words. I see them in you. I don’t often give praise lightly, but... you’ve earned it. Now come, there’s work to be done. The world won't rebuild itself."