AM I ME? OR AM I YOU ? — The line between the two of them is so terribly blurred, and Rogue finds that mother dearest enjoys crossing it whenever she pleases. We, not me or you. Mystique’s will is meant to be executed by her dutiful daughter, for do they not share the same intentions? Surely a young, wild thing, shaped from clay by Mystique’s guiding hands would understand. Right? Right.

❛❛ Did I raise you to disobey me, Anna Marie? Or to listen to me when I need you to? Which is it? Answer me! ❜❜ , anger boils to each shard in her skin, she raised Rogue and yet, shock becomes her at the similarity between their behaviour.

what lives in you – lives in me. a vile, gnawing pain that aches and echoes in the cavern that is mystique's womb, transferred to the daughter. carried by the daughter. nurtured by the daughter. a carefully constructed umbilical cord that refuses to be severed. that wraps tightly around her throat. do you see yourself in my eyes mother? do you look upon me and see a conduit for your anger? for your rage?

rotten is the breath exhaled; an instruction emitted almost selfishly transfers upon the girl and her soft features, or at least, soft compared to the scales mystique bears. “ sit. please. calm down. ” hardly a begging, but from her, rogue would've known it was more than enough. enough to sway her to sit down however timidly. in all her chaotic disposition, mystique is engulfed within the unintentional intoxication rogue gifts her. don't be weak, don't show emotion –– what is a simple formulae to mystique, rogue buffers and collapses on. never understood why –– never will. but an attempt to try to, is what she sees.