Were Rogue to sniff her glove she'd be able to smell some of the exact same hydrangea lotion smell, Priscilla's hand old and shrunken in hers. But they're getting to the crux of it now, Priscilla's voice unusually earnest as she spoke.

"Partly." Priscilla nodded, eyes fixed on Rogue's. "But there was another woman, one who conceived you, carried you to term, crafting your genes before you were even born to ensure you were the future of our species."

As she spoke Priscilla's voice grew stronger, although her volume dipped, forcing Rogue to lean closer, the grip on her hand tightening so that she could not pull away, dishwater dull eyes gleaming yellow.

"Figured it out yet?" Mystique's unnatural voice echoed from Priscilla's lips, albeit quietly so as not to draw unwanted attention from the other customers.