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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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"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."

"Your walk." Beat. "Answer my questions and I'll answer yours?"

...now that's actually sensible.

Hmm.

Pros, cons...

"Sounds like a deal," says Sylar at last. "No. This isn't my real form."

"Okay. While we're at it, want to go get a drink? There must be an abandoned pub around here somewhere." Beat. "This is usually the point where you show me the real you, by the way."

"A drink sounds good to me." Neutrally. "And that wasn't part of the arrangement."

"Yes, but isn't it so much more friendly?"

"Oh, but I'm a lot friendlier when I'm impersonating the President."

Nathan's grin is back.

It's edged with something a little less pleasant - a hint of cruelty that probably shouldn't be examined too closely.

"Change anyway. I'm curious."

There's a short hesitation, but nobody who fails to recognize the President is going to recognize Sylar, and appeasing this kid seems to be the only way to get a better handle on that power.

The mask ripples and fades and melts into nothingness, leaving a tall, slim man with eyebrows like mating caterpillars and gravity-defying bedhead.

He's really not thinking about the presentability aspect of his true face.

"Wow. Those are some eyebrows." Thoughtfully. He refrains from adding 'I can see why you might try to hide them.'

Sylar's withering glare hasn't seen use in more than half a decade.

It suffered no loss of potency in the interim.

Solemnly: "Don't worry." Sam reaches over to pat him on the shoulder. "You're still very pretty, I'm sure."

...hmm.

Wearing his true face doesn't make Sylar any less adept at playing a part. He smiles slightly, relaxing the glare in a way that suggests a blush might be in the offing, were he undignified enough to indulge it.

"I'm sure I am," Sylar replies lightly.