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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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"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."

"So are you."

Sylar isn't, but Sam doesn't know that.

"Am not." Sam replies, easily.

Unfortunately for Sam, Sylar isn't the sort to let himself get baited into these kinds of arguments.

Thus: silence.

He's contemplating flying the rest of the way. After a takeoff on national television, who's going to care?

Perhaps a change of identity is in order.

Hm. How to make him talk.

Will poking him in the ribs work?

No.

It'll get Sam's hand grabbed, though, and a venomous glare shot his way that breaks the character of Nathan Petrelli, Friendly President into a thousand pieces.

Sylar gets a big grin.
"Ticklish?" Sympathetically.

The President does not break strangers' fingers. The President does not break strangers' fingers. The President does not break strangers' fingers. The President does not break strangers' fingers.

...

He lets Sam go and keeps walking, with a stride perhaps just a little too quick for the length his legs appear to have.

Sam notices - It's one of those little details he's learnt to pick up on.

"Is that even your real form?"

Guardedly: "What would make you ask that question? You're the shapeshifter here."