Mockingbird
Rogue should wonder more about the company she keeps. Too many people in her cellphone have safe houses. There is something to be said about that, she's sure, she just isn't in the mood to consider any of that right now. The sketchy life style that requires such places is proving to be very beneficial to her.
Not that this is a secret, but the school features absolutely no privacy. Between the ever present security system, nosy students and the even nosier staff, taking a moment to oneself just doesn't have an opportunity to happen. After everything that went down with her and the Apocalypse Twins, Rogue is the center of a lot of talk.
So now she slinks away to a dark apartment to lick her wounds.
Mystique's apartment.
One of them, anyway. At least this one has furniture, she notices dully, tossing her overnight bag onto the couch as she steps down into the lowered living room. The cushion has no give, unused, and Rogue is undecided on whether or not the apartment was furnished for her benefit, or if Mystique is just that good at leaving no presence. "Mixed bag," she mutters to no one. The woman can be more of a ghost than a chameleon.
Heading towards the kitchen, Rogue starts pulling at the finger tips of her gloves. Time to see what's in the cupboards, maybe the fridge.
She can really go for some chocolate marshmallow caramel swirl.