It seems that most of the projects I'm doing with relationship to

Host: The scene opens in an old comic book shop just before closing time. Fluorescent lights hum faintly above rows of colorful covers, their heroes frozen mid-leap — forever saving the world on thin, glossy paper. The faint scent of ink, cardboard, and nostalgia hangs in the air.

Outside, the rain falls gently, tapping against the windows like the rhythm of turning pages. Inside, there is quiet — the kind of quiet that feels sacred to those who have lived inside stories.

Jack stands near the back of the store, his gray eyes fixed on a framed poster of the X-Men, its edges yellowed with time. His reflection mingles with Cyclops, Wolverine, and Storm — half man, half myth.

Across from him, Jeeny leans against the counter, flipping through a worn copy of Uncanny X-Men. Her dark hair catches the fluorescent light as she reads a panel out loud, her voice carrying the weight of memory.

Behind them, on a display shelf, a small card reads:

“It seems that most of the projects I'm doing with relationship to Marvel's 80th anniversary occur during my core run on the X-Men titles.” — Chris Claremont

Host: The camera pans across the shop — the heroes, the villains, the endless struggle between them. It feels less like fiction and more like a mirror of the human heart.

Jack: [quietly, still staring at the poster] “Eighty years. That’s a long time for one universe to keep saving itself.”

Jeeny: [closing the comic, smiling faintly] “Or maybe it’s been saving us. Every issue, every arc — little lessons disguised as battles.”

Jack: [smirking] “You really think that’s what Claremont meant? That his work wasn’t just stories, but continuity — threads that keep history alive?”

Jeeny: [nodding] “Exactly. When he talks about his ‘core run,’ he’s not just talking about writing the X-Men. He’s talking about shaping identity. He didn’t just write mutants — he wrote metaphors for difference, for alienation, for power and pain.”

Jack: [softly] “For what it means to be human.”

Jeeny: [gently] “Yes. And to be other at the same time.”

Host: The camera lingers on the comic in Jeeny’s hands — an old issue where Storm stands beneath lightning, defiant, her eyes glowing white. The panels look alive in the dim light, the ink pulsing with purpose.

Jack: [after a pause] “You know, Claremont’s run wasn’t just legendary because of the stories. It was because he made time feel circular — characters growing, breaking, healing, and then finding new versions of themselves. Like he knew every evolution needs a resurrection.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Just like life. We write our own arcs, but the themes always come back — love, loss, redemption. Different costumes, same heart.”

Jack: [grinning] “And the audience keeps waiting for the reboot.”

Jeeny: [laughing softly] “We all do. It’s easier to start over than to keep growing.”

Host: The camera shifts, the shelves stretching endlessly behind them, filled with issues that tell the same story in infinite ways — the eternal fight between hope and despair.

Jack: [leaning against the counter] “I think that’s what anniversaries really are — checkpoints. Times to see if we’ve changed, or just circled back. Marvel’s 80th wasn’t just about nostalgia. It was about whether the world still believes in heroes.”

Jeeny: [softly] “And do you?”

Jack: [after a pause] “Some days. The older I get, the more I realize that heroes aren’t the ones who save the world. They’re the ones who keep trying when the world stops deserving it.”

Jeeny: [nodding slowly] “That’s very Claremont of you.”

Jack: [smiling faintly] “Maybe he infected me. His mutants — they weren’t about perfection. They were about persistence.”

Jeeny: [thoughtfully] “Because power without pain is meaningless.”

Jack: [nodding] “And pain without purpose is tragedy. Claremont wrote about turning one into the other.”

Host: The rain outside intensifies, blurring the streetlights into watercolor. The reflections in the window — of superheroes, of two ordinary people — merge into something unclassifiable.

Jeeny: [closing the comic gently] “You know, it’s strange. We keep saying ‘fiction’ like it’s separate from reality. But writers like Claremont — they didn’t write escapism. They wrote reminders.”

Jack: [curious] “Reminders of what?”

Jeeny: [softly] “That every world — even the imaginary ones — need empathy to survive.”

Jack: [quietly] “Maybe that’s why his work lasted. Because empathy doesn’t age.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Neither does imagination. You can reprint stories forever, but they only live because someone still feels something.”

Host: The camera moves closer, the soft glow of the comic’s pages illuminating Jeeny’s hands. The words and pictures ripple slightly in the light, as though the characters themselves are breathing.

Jack: [murmuring] “So when Claremont said most of his projects for Marvel’s anniversary tied back to his X-Men run… maybe he wasn’t just being nostalgic. Maybe he meant that the stories that define us never really end. They just keep echoing through everything new.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “Exactly. The past isn’t a prison — it’s a backbone. And when art aligns with memory, it becomes legacy.”

Jack: [softly] “Legacy. That’s the word.”

Host: The camera tilts upward, focusing on the old poster again — the X-Men united against impossible odds, the tagline reading “The Strangest Heroes of All.”

Host: Chris Claremont’s words hover in the air like prophecy —

“It seems that most of the projects I’m doing with relationship to Marvel’s 80th anniversary occur during my core run on the X-Men titles.”

Host: And in that reflection lies a timeless truth —

That creation is not a moment, but a continuum.
That art does not fade, it evolves.
And that every artist, like every hero,
returns — not to repeat themselves,
but to redefine what made them real.

Host: The final shot:
Jeeny slides the comic back into its sleeve.
Jack turns off the lights one by one until only the neon “OPEN” sign glows faintly red.

They step out into the rain —
two shadows beneath the same umbrella,
passing the reflection of heroes in puddles —
the kind of reflection that blurs the line between story and soul.

The door closes behind them with a small chime,
and inside, the shelves of comics stand like silent witnesses to immortality —
inked proof that stories never die;
they just keep telling us who we are.

Fade to black.