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In Metropolis, there is a man in a dark suit. He's of a sort of non-descript middle age, not specifically young but nowhere near old.

As for what he's doing?

He's looking around. Learning. Absorbing local color. Picking up the lingo (which isn't as hard as it should be) and the customs. Occasionally having a meal somewhere and libating to that ever so beneficent monarch of the dead, Hades, just so he can explain the custom to curious onlookers. Carefully working minor miracles wherever it'll do the most good-- and once again, advertizing for the once and future Lord of the Underworld. Looking at maps, trying to figure out where he can start an underworld on this continent.

It's not his world. There's a lot to learn.

Good thing he got the brains in the family.

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"And I think everybody ought to be able to see who you are, too, don't you?"

No more illusions for Sylar, who's standing there like...

... Ah. Like Hades said too much-- explained there was only so far he could go. Well, these things happen, and hey, knowing he's out there will be something to tell heroes to go after. The world needs a few known dangers.

And the more Sylar stands there and loses, the more likely he is to be killed when someone besides Hades does go after him.

He's stuck with his own face now, after all.

Still, suddenly shopping for an Underworld is Hades's top priority-- a killing spree is only good for business if you've got somewhere for the dead to go.

Sylar...

...shakes his head, puts his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, turns and walks away.

Laughing quietly.

You're not worth my time anymore, says the laugh.

It would be a ridiculous show of bravado, if it weren't perfectly sincere.

Well that's just rude.

No, it pretty much is.

So Hades rips one more ability-- doesn't look like much, like it was tied to the persuasion and didn't come separately-- away from Sylar.

But aside from that, he lets Sylar go.

Hey, he's got more important things to do, too.

There's a familiar shape standing in the puddle of molten pavement.

What, you thought someone could let off that much fire and Alice Cooper wouldn't notice?

Shaking her head as she stares after Sylar: "And I thought Sis was crazy."

"Yeah. That guy? Nuttier than an almond tree."

It's amazing how close to right you can set things when your metaphorical divine fingerprints are all over the mess. The glass is set back in the window, the sidewalk cafe mostly righted. The planter is full of dead, dry dust, though.

And the bistro tables probably weren't quite that gothic.

"Let's see, if I had to guess where you came in... I'd guess the whole pillar of flame thing." Right before the little punk bitchslapped him.

"Yep."

There's totally not a smirk in her voice when she says, "Y'got puddled, Boss."

By way of further explanation: "I mean, sweet shit, I didn't know people came that braindead, but you gotta admire anyone who keeps slugging away when he knows he's beat, y'know?"

"Like the collective superpowered stubbornness of Sparta," Hades agrees. "Oy."

She's close enough to the throne to pat his shoulder in a sympathetic fashion, and she's Alice enough that the gesture doesn't come off as the least bit condescending.

"They're the ones where three hundred of 'em woulda held off a metric shit-ton of Persians if it weren't for the creepy hobgoblin guy spilling the beans about some secret passageway, right?"

Yep, she saw 300.

Eh, from her he doesn't mind. Not that every minion should go up and pat the boss, but the heavy duty eyerolling is a little higher up on the list.

"At Thermopilae," Hades agrees, even as his narration regards that I as a potential misspelling. "And there were like a thousand Thespians and some other people there too, but all Ares ever talks about his his Spartans." On and on and on.

Okay, bodies. What's traditional to do with bodies, around here?

Hades settles for manifesting shrouds over them-- they did not stay pretty, after all.

It works well enough. Alice nods, at least, though possibly that's at the Spartans.

In other news: "So I'm betting this'll up the publicity."

"And there's no such thing as bad publicity, but I'm hoping this one goes down as 'crazy guy kills staff, god intervenes.'"

Not too bad, really. Only one other casualty, and who the hell expects someone to be what amounts to a glassbender?

"I'm pretty sure that's the gist of the story. Granted I didn't show up until the giant fucking column of fire happened."

And for the record? Standing on molten pavement is totes comfy. Toasty warm! ♥

"Hey, for extra fun, I was demonstrating libation beforehand."

Belief seeding begun. Next project: Underworld.

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