Smiling faintly, Mystique held up her own hand; the colour faded from it, leaving pale peach with an ugly black number inscribed on the skin of her forearm. She shook her hand, and the tattoo faded. If only it were that easy.
"He's survived me," she said, humor in her eyes as she looked at Forge. "He should survive you as well - as long as you keep in mind that I don't take fondly of people accidentally killing my agents." He certainly seemed enthusiastic. It was nice to see that, about something other than blowing up buildings.