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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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"You certainly are," Sylar agrees.

It's possible he does so mockingly.

"I'd offer proof, but I get this feeling you'd just, you know, rationalize it away." There's a fluttering sort of gesture there. Shoo, proof. Clearly you are not as proofy as you think you are.

Possibly Hades is a little less inclined to show off divine power on a not-quite-deserted street.

... Possibly this would, in fact, be a good idea. Good publicity.

Eh. He'll keep thinking about it while he plays Poke The Atheist.

"That depends," he says with an insufferable smirk, "on the nature of the proof."

"Well," Hades says, setting aside his coffee cup, "Why don't we start small. Coffee?" He holds out a hand as though plucking a mug out of thin air-- there's a swirl of smoke and by the time his fingers close, there's a cup there, full of steaming coffee.

Black, of course, and far too sweet, but hey, that's how Hades likes it. "Praise be unto Hades for this miracle."

It's small.

It's quite possible nobody but Sylar saw that.

"You have the ability to produce coffee out of nothing," Sylar notes, raising his eyebrows again. "Impressive, practical, but so far nothing leads me to conclude divine."

It is, you must admit, a reasonable conclusion. If you're an atheist who doesn't know much about the way Greek gods run things.

"As a mere mortal, I have no power." This would totally be true, if Hades were a mere mortal. Suffice it to say a mere mortal has no power, so that works out. (And, of course, some mortals aren't quite so mere.)

"What little I can do has a divine source." This is entirely true! However, it is also true (and probably more apparent to Sylar) that nothing Hades did had any kind of external source whatsoever.

So there are two conclusions to draw here.

Either he's lying or he's a god.

The steady heartbeat suggests the latter. Actually, come to think of it, Hades' entire body is working far, far too well. Not a single system out of whack.

Those eyebrows? Yeah, they're doing their thing.

"I would contest," Sylar says slowly, "the label of 'mere mortal'."

Because it's becoming clear that Hades is nothing of the sort.

"Well, nobody likes to think of themselves as a 'mere' anything," Hades agrees. Probably. It's said in an agreeable 'sure, the mileage is a little high, but these German-made things just go forever' tone, anyway. "But humility's a good thing to have. Gotta know your strengths and weaknesses, right?"

It's a perfect body, really. Like he's never had a broken bone or been sick a day in his life or pulled a muscle or gotten cut or dislocated anything or ingested an artificial preservative. Really, at his age (which is hard to determine, as he could be a well-preserved fifty-something or a mature-looking thirtysomething, at least), something should be giving him trouble.

He's either a deluded regenerative with some extras, or a deity in disguise.

Not enough information to decide.

On the other hand... Sylar frowns.

"If you're faking mortality, you're not doing a very good job of it."

Hades raises an eyebrow. "Oh really?" That's a challenge, there, and not a request for tips.

"You're too perfect."

And what's the point of a disguise if it doesn't gain you power? Sure, Sylar hid himself for five years. But he got a Presidency out of the bargain. What's a god want with mortality?

"Not a singly system out of place. Hardly realistic."

Information. Unobtrusive interaction. To be able to have a nice long shower without putting his hair out.

"I've been blessed with good health." Piety shouldn't be quite so snarky. (Which is not to say that godly blessings don't work that way.)

Sylar says nothing.

He doesn't have to.

Hades' own mortal face raises an eyebrow at him pointedly.

He thought Sylar had a different feel to him.

Ah well. It's not like it's Hades's actual face, just one that's... fairly close. If Hades were, say, Zeus or Posiedon or Demeter, even Hera if she had her peplos in a twist that day, it'd be enough to set him off. As it stands, Hades isn't quite inclined to smite the guy for being a dickweed-- at least with an audience.

"Nice trick. There was a guy back home who could do that. Related to Posiedon somehow, I think..." Sprawling family. Where did Proteus fit into the family tree? Damn, now it was going to bother him.

Dismissing the illusion, "It's certainly effective."

Hmph. Mythology.

He finds this conversation irritating.

To be fair, where Hades is from, mythology is current events.

"Bet it's useful. Although, of course the gods can take any shape they choose. Mostly you just hear about Zeus, though, because he shows off." Bull, swan, shower of gold. And as has been shown, this guy is going for the whole 'devotee of Hades' thing.

His arms are crossed. His fingers are tapping against his elbow.

The tips are glowing.

That's a very concentrated, very fatal dose of radiation headed your way, Hades.

It isn't going to touch anyone else in this city, because that would be inefficient. But Sylar has had just about enough of this gods and miracles crap. If there's a god watching over this guy closely enough to provide him with coffee, a little induced radiation shouldn't be anything to worry about. And if, as Sylar suspects, the man is the god... well, then things are going to get interesting.

Sylar can handle interesting.

To say Hades doesn't react would be inaccurate. He reels-- mortal bodies aren't meant to stand up to abuse like that.

So it's a good thing he only looks mortal and didn't decide to do anything stupid like be mortal. (Within his power, easy, just not bright.)

Besides, heat is a form of radiation, and Hades can handle heat. Thus it is that the radiation is drawn inward, carefully soaked up. The only signs that Hades might have had any problems besides a little low blood sugar or something are the thin wisps of dark smoke that curl up from his shoulders, and the dark look in his eyes.

The coffee he conjured is still there, sitting on the table next to the coffee he paid for (with manifested money).

"That was a mistake."

Technically, he could still just have the mother of all mutant healing factors.

"Really."

Sylar grins.

"Let's just say I'm testing a hypothesis."

It's blatantly obvious that he doesn't consider Hades a threat.

Perhaps because both those coffees are beginning to not-so-unobtrusively freeze over.

As is, you know, everything else in a ten-foot radius.

If he can handle heat, how is he with cold?

... Is this little overpowered mortal punk actually trying to get into a pissing contest with a god?

There's frost on Hades's suit.

The guy inside doesn't seem bothered.

That preternatural good health doesn't seem to be working, just now. Not hypothermia or anything so silly-- it's just that the systems aren't really what you'd call running.

He picks up a coffeesicle and it steams in his hand before he sips it.

There's a waitress staring now, and a busboy asking her what's wrong.

One more long sip, and Hades pours the rest out into the planter, although it's nearly frozen again before it hits the dirt. "Praise unto Hades for his blessings." The words have sharp edges in them.

Yes.

Yes he is.

And it's incredibly obvious that he thinks he'll win.

A short wave of his hand, and the waitress and busboy are considerably more... inside out than they just were.

Sylar does not approve of distractions.

"But is he around to hear you?" asks Sylar coolly, in a voice that would be frozen even if the ground weren't.

And now there are screams.

It's a sidewalk cafe, on a nice spring day-- sure, it's a little postapocalyptic, but people are trying to have normal lives, and you don't expect the scary shit to come waltzing up to your customers and turning your staff inside out and splattering gobbets of pathology in your latte.

Hades stands.

"That's enough." It cuts through the screams, though people are still fleeing for the relative safety of the indoor cafe.

Mortals are dead. Well, that was going to happen anyway. It's sort of the point of being mortal. But this guy? This guy is going to wish he was dead when Hades gets done with him. (In no small part because he's not killing him outright until he's got a nice interesting Underworld punishment worked out for him-- which means no killing him until he's got the Underworld set up, so Hades can supervise what happens to his shade.)

The cold melts away, pushed back by a heat as oppressive as a blast furnace-- hot enough to char Hades's suit, to smoke around him, to curl around his feet like incense smoke, to make his skin look... grayer, colder. The mortal diguise is not completely abandoned yet, but he's let the edges blur. No flames yet-- just smoke.

"You want to screw around with me, you little overpowered punk? Fine. Leave the locals out of it."

That was bad form, after all. And Hades wanted those potential worshippers.

"As you wish," Sylar hisses through clenched teeth, and pushes the cold.

He can't stand up to a god for long. Perhaps not at all.

But he's too much of a stubborn, arrogant bastard not to try.

Which means the air itself is close to freezing by Sylar's hands.

It reminds him obliquely of the battle with Peter Petrelli. Well, he won that, didn't he?

Of course he did. He's got Petrelli's power, doesn't he?

Let the air freeze. Hades will warm things up.

Oh, only a short burst of divine fire, but hot enough to dispell the cold-- and unless he's pulling something else off, the force of the hot air meeting the cold air is probably enough to knock Sylar on his ass.

Really, Sylar should be thankful Hades didn't just render him down into soup.

It knocks Sylar on--

--on another stolen power.

Is this the best you can do? asks the smirk.

Sylar, meanwhile, is suddenly a good deal less there than he was before. It's not visible, but he's decided that intangibility would be a good power to take advantage of right now.

On top of the cryokinesis. And the hovering.

And the way the ground crackles and rises up like a fist to close around Hades.