Luke took twice as long to get to where Sylar was than his friend, and he didn't look too pleased about all the stairs either. A glance up partway through left him feeling sick to his stomach. He couldn't even see the top. There was just an encroaching darkness fifteen or so floors up.

That didn't sit well with him.

Where the hell were they? And what happened if they actually ran into someone? The first question was at least answered by Sylar's triumphant finding of snack cakes. They weren't Hostess though, this was Wales and the UK had their own set of sweets.

Luke might have been puffing a little when he got to him. "What's a sick-own?" he asked, mispronouncing scone.