"That'd be too easy," Sylar muttered, shifting his body language into 'peeved' mode as soon as the nurse turned to check something on the radio. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning a shoulder against the wall and glancing at the guy – young, early twenties, looked like. British, like Grell, or at least that's what it sounded like: with alternate dimensions and fantasy worlds and whatever the hell else was going on here, he could've just as easily been a Morgo from the planet Morgulon.

Actually, the latter would be better. The weirder the origins, the weirder – and better – the power seemed to be, but right now, the screwdrivers were Sylar's main concern. They weighed heavily in his pocket; one stupid move and some caveman orderly might feel him up and find them, and really, humiliating Peter Petrelli was the most fun when Sylar got something tangible out of it.

He kept his eyes fixed on the nurse, just over the man's shoulder.

"The question is whether or not they'll let us carry anything out." He glanced back to the man's face. "You find anything interesting?"