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There's a flash and a bang and a very confused man with ridiculous hair appears, hovering a few feet above the rubble of a destroyed parking lot.

Hey, when you can cast illusions, you don't need a comb.

"...The hell?" Sylar starts to say, and before he's quite done with the sentence it's President Nathan Petrelli who's making the quizzical exclamation to empty air, settling gently to the ground.

You can never be too careful.

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"I know." Sylar gets a big grin. It's hard to say how sincere it is.

It's remarkably easy to hide the sharp, hot twist of rage behind a pleasant, friendly expression.

"Mind telling me how that works?"

It doesn't obey the rules he's used to, that's for sure. He'd need more study to really be certain, and somehow Sylar doubts this arrogant young man is going to hold still for further examination.

Sam considers this, thoughtfully.

He doesn't appear to be inclined to stop considering anytime soon.

(Now he's just being deliberately aggravating.)

For the record, Sam, Sylar cares more about figuring out how to duplicate your ability than he does about murdering you out of sheer frustration.

Barely.

"I'd really appreciate it," he prompts, adding one of Nathan's Very Genuine Smiles.

"How appreciative are we talking here?" Eyebrow waggle.

...

"Not that appreciative."

GOOD GOD.

Oh, come on, you walked into that one, Sy.

"That's not an answer."

"No, it isn't, is it?"

It's also the best Sam is getting, because Sylar starts walking.

Somewhere.

Away.

"Do you even know where you're going?" Sam calls after him.

"Back to Washington would be a nice start."

Because, you know.

He lives there.

"But Washington is boring."

"What a joker," he says lightly.

Because seriously, does this not know he's President?

"I'm not joking. I never joke. You're a joker."

~~"Am not."~~

"The President never jokes. Bad publicity."

That was, in fact, a joke.

Broad smile, as fake as a plastic Rolex.

"The President's hair is lighter." Dismissively.

Absolutely no good will come of saying that no, in fact, it isn't.

So Sylar refrains.

Step. Step. Step.

"Everyone's dead in Washington anyway."

No, see, Sam, you lost your credibility around the time you propositioned the President of the United States.

Ignore!

Do something shiny or go away.

No fair! It's not as if Sam's American!

He nonetheless tries to attract Sylar's attention again. This time by turning into him.

He should probably act shocked.

Instead he simply laughs.

"Nice trick you have there, kid."

"Aw, shucks."

"And I see you picked a handsome face to show off with."

Sylar grins.

Slashers all around the world stare in horrified, perversely intrigued fascination.

"Eh, mine's better."

"I'm afraid my wife would disagree."

...she probably wouldn't, actually, but it's something to say.

"She's biased, though."