"This is what it's like--"
Rogue's eyes comes into focus, fix on the nighttime bedroom ceiling-- flicker to the light fixture, then to the door, back to the ceiling. She says, aloud, "what?"
A sourceless voice says again, "This is what it's like."
Rogue's gaze skitters over the shadows of the inverse craters on the granule ceiling. Her mind feels warm, like the bodyheat of a solid weight draped across it. There's a tickle in the pit of her stomach, like a felt-tip marker dragging across the inside of her: a marker drawing pictures of things Rogue hasn't seen, hasn't done. has heard, on occassion.
Then there's new warmth at the tips of her toes and fingers, and she thinks of glitter and spikes, and then she thinks, this is what it's like.
Rogue shakes her head, in the darkness of her room. She says out loud, "I don' want you to do this."
The warmth pulls away instantly, leaving a strange itch on the soles of her feet, and the ceiling comes into sharper focus. The sourceless murmuring voice tightens into Betsy's strong, accented voice, low but solid, distant, saying, "All right."