"I- our spec- Ma- you're hurting me," she says, pulling her hand back, though Priscilla's grip was iron. She looks from their hands, to Priscilla's face and- those eyes.

She knew those eyes.

They haunted her sleep.

Rogue had two things she could do here, she realized. One: Rip her hand from her glove and cause a huge fuss by knocking Mystique out right here and now and get her answers that way. This would get the ire of the local community, and likely her fellow X-Men. Two: Keep this civil and hopefully get her answers and maybe some more information about her life. She'd always had questions. This was her chance.

As much as she wanted to punch Mystique, because she really fucking did, she was still the lady Priscilla had raised her to be.

She sets her jaw. "What the hell are you talking about." Her voice is low.