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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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He's not quite fast enough to block and not quite sane enough to dodge.

So the column of fire dissipates as Sylar makes a strangled noise halfway between a growl and a scream. Anyone in the audience who reads Niven might be tempted to draw a comparison with the kzinti; certainly the bared teeth are feral enough.

At least he had the presence of mind to fling his hands up in front of his face, which means that mostly what he's regrowing are his arms and the front half of his torso, while the glass freezes brittle and is flung down to shatter violently on the pavement.

Breathing hard with half-seared lungs, he takes a moment to stop and think. He can't just keep throwing power at Hades if the damn god is going to keep taking them away. He needs a plan.

He may even need to retreat and regroup, though the very concept leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"And you know, I just thought of one more thing I don't want you doing." Besides dying before Hades has somewhere secure to put him. The fire's gone, so the huddled mortals in the cafe have decided to run, mostly through the open window and down the street. There's a body flung over a table, flesh bubbled and blistered.

Hades will have to hurry if he wants anyone to see this.

"Can't have you getting creative with your fellow mortals, now, can we?" Fingersnap.

If Sylar wants to affect the carbon-based, he's going to have to find a way to do it besides what he took from Darla Wood.

"That's just not fair."

One of the fleeing patrons turns back long enough to see Sylar, with an incoherent shout, blast forward into Hades with all of Nathan Petrelli's stolen speed.

You scream and you leap, the man thinks, and can't help but spare a moment's admiration for the sheer bloody-minded tenacity of a mortal taking repeated potshots at what is clearly Hades, God of the Underworld.

But it's only a moment, and then he's running again.

That connects.

And in reaching to strip Sylar of his speed, Hades discovers it's connected (if loosely) to Sylar's flight. Sure, he could untangle them, if he weren't already pissed off. Flight, he wants to leave the mortal with, for now. If he doesn't strip all his powers, flight will be the easiest escape route.

Not far off, however, is the ability to transcribe the future. That one will be more useful in Hades's hands than Sylar's, once he finds someone to bestow it on. (Even if it does run the risk of pissing off Mort.)

When they come to a stop, Hades snatches it away before disappearing-- though this time in a column of flame instead of smoke.

"You," he tells Sylar, "Are like a goodie bag of superhuman abilities. Annoying as you are, I just can't wait to find some worthy mortals to bestow some of this stuff on."

Yes. Yes, he is trying to keep Sylar angry. It's hard to think clearly when you're angry.

"Those are mine," the mortal spits, turning around again. "Too much of a coward to insult me to my face?"

The taunt is a distraction, though it's not immediately clear from what.

He lands-- no. He hovers a bare inch above the road, pressing a hand to the cracked pavement.

A dead second's space wherein absolutely nothing happens.

And then the ground is melting in a swath that heads straight for Hades' feet.

Hey, if he can hit him, he can liquefy him, right?

Provided the power works fast enough-- and it's always been one of Sylar's quickest, if one of the least useful until now.

Hades stands his ground, because what, like he's afraid of a little quicksand? "Oh, right, yes, born with all these gifts, that's you. I'm sure."

It's possible there's a lesson to be learned there, about not getting out of the way.

Where there was a god, suddenly there is a puddle.

Granted, it's a puddle on fire, but he went down without even an I'm melting! What a world!

Sylar grins, a bloodthirsty, terrifying grin.

No, he's not stupid enough to think that's it for Hades. But he won. He outfought a god, and however temporary his victory, he's going to enjoy it while it fucking well lasts.

Pity there are no fellow mortals left nearby to hear him laugh.

The flame, after a moment, goes out.

Except for Sylar's laughter, things are silent for a long, long moment.

Yeah, remember that planter over there? The one that got frostbitten and then fried and has generally seen better days?

It erupts, and forms a rough throne, and the being sitting in it is clapping with that particular hollow sarcasm that just one person's applause carries. "Now that was something. Melting. One of the classics, really. Very impressive.

"Who'd you steal it from?"

This time there's actually an accompanying gesture, like pulling a drawer open. The loss this time is not swift and sudden, but slow. Drawn out.

It may, in fact, be painful, or just like slowly losing something that had felt like a part of you for some time.

Guess what, being liquidated is not pleasant. (Not permanent, but so few things are, to gods.)

"If-- you're as-- powerful-- as you claim, find out-- for yourself."

It does hurt. It hurts, and he can't get away from it, and he doesn't know where he finds the strength to taunt.

"My brother's girlfriend can do that much." Derisively. From Sylar's point of view, Gabriel (however cherished) seems so... young. Fragile. The same goes for Intuition, by extension.

"Are you still uppity, little hero-thief?" Hades asks, bordering on incredulous. "All this, and you still haven't figured out that it doesn't matter how powerful you are if you cross someone more powerful? I mean, I can sit here stripping away powers that would do a true hero, even a mediocre hero, even a marketplace fortuneteller proud," his ability to win friends is undiminished, but the ability to influence people is snapped back down to normal levels even as Hades is still drawing that liquification power away (almost gone now), "until you're down to what you were born with.

"And no matter what you can throw at me, you can't keep me down."

So if Gabe and thus Intuition are young and fragile and Hades is less powerful than Intuition, what's that say for Sylar?

Incredibly, Sylar smiles.

When the slowly-draining power finally leaves, he straightens and crosses his arms, saying nothing.

No matter what Hades can do to him, he won.

Even if he's drained back to his starting point, he has that to buoy him. It's a rush like playing Mohinder, like the moment he dropped his false face and showed Peter the real President of the United States-- only better.

And he'd almost like the excuse to kill again. Before the waterbender, he'd started to forget how good it felt.

"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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