Days after the New Olympians case ended in Greece, Wesley Dodds made an announcement to a startled Dian Belmont.
“Dian, I still can’t cure Sandy, but I’ll never stop making that my top priority,” he said, having emerged from his underground lair like Orpheus rising from Hades. “You know that already, but I am also not retiring fully from crime-fighting. With thugs like ‘Snooze’ Simpson plaguing New York City, the Sandman is still needed, and you and I both know Sandy would not want me to quit the mystery-man game because of him.
“My health is better, too, since that heart attack a couple of years back,” Wes continued, though Dian looked doubtful at this proclamation. The cumulative effect of his many sleepless nights had obviously taken a physical toll on him, and the dark bags under his eyes were only one symptom of many that he seemed to be ignoring. “And when the Sandman does make his appearance again, it’s going to be in the first suit. That purple and gold one you made just reminds me too much of Sandy. I won’t wear it again until after he’s cured, if at all.”
Dian sighed and kept herself from crying in despair before he left the room to return to his underground laboratory. She was resigned to Wes’ career; she had no other choice.