Hours past. Wilson merely stared at the cold cobblestone floor. There was nothing he could do without his staff. If he had it, he knew that extreme cold could make the metal bars brittle and breakable. But of course, he wasn't sure about dark metal. Perhaps it would behave the same way, or maybe just reflect any magic he threw at it.

Thinking about such scenarios helped to calm him down. Thinking now was pretty damn calming. Maybe it was because he wasn't worrying now, which was the exact opposite of what he should be feeling. He should be terrified. But he wasn't. He was calm.

Maybe that didn't make sense. What it meant was that thinking was calming, and he was calm because he wasn't worrying, and he didn't have a headache because I wasn't worrying so he could think straight. It kinda cancels out everything.

Wilson was trying to grasp his situation more than anything. Maxwell brought him here, using Charlie of course, and most likely was going to use him as for a sick experiment, probably because his Grue was stronger than the others. Whatever the reason, Wilson didn't like it.

Sighing, he looked up at the bars, their dark magic continuing to flow through the metal. It's not like he wasn't scared. He was a bit. But when he thought about being separated from his selfish desires, he didn't feel scared. Part of him looked forward to it. He wanted to mentally slap himself for thinking so stupidly. That part of him would kill anything that got near it. It's what he felt like doing whenever anyone got close to him. Which may label him as a much of a psychopath as Maxwell.

But that could change. If they managed to kill his Grue before anyone died, maybe he could be a different person. He smiled at that thought. They were his friends, right? They would do such things for him, right?

Maxwell's words echoed in his head, and his smile faltered. Your friends don't care for you, they only pity you.

Was that true? Did they only stay with him out of pity? He suddenly felt like he'd been acting needy, and insecurity crept into his mind. He tightened his scarf nervously, suddenly afraid of what they thought of him. He looked around out of habit, afraid someone was seeing him act this way. There wasn't, but he stopped anyway, going back to thinking. Why kill the gods? To "impress" Charlie? For fun? Maxwell was a troublemaker, but not a murderer. What had made him do this to his fellow gods?

A sudden clank ripped him from his thoughts. The cell door had opened, Charlie, clad in shadow, staring at him. She waved her hand for Wilson to follow.

It's time.