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"It's time to go."
Johanna looks up to see Cashmere approaching, and decides that Cashmere isn't worth her time, so she goes back to lying on her back, considering the cracks in the ceiling. She wonders if Marta did the same thing in her own cell, or if she passed the time a different way. If it were Haymitch or Finnick, she might have sat up. Even for Snow or one of his cronies, she could be angry enough to give them some attention. But Cashmere isn't worth any of that. She's neither ally nor enemy, just another person that Johanna has to contend with sometimes.
Cashmere sighs in a way that indicates that even visiting such a derelict place as this prison is a burden to her, and therefore Johanna should be grateful, and sits on the bench outside of Johanna's cell. "Listen, I'm not going to apologize."
Johanna snorts.
"I mean, I had to say something to explain why you were being insane! Would you prefer if I called you a rebel?"
She wants morphling. Or to be punched in the face again. Just something to take the edge off. Because right now it feels like her heart is broken, something that should not have been able to happen just from a plane taking off, or Cashmere managing to deceive her, but she feels so, so raw. And embarrassed, really. The Capitol is bleak, it is hell, so she should know better than to get her hopes up about anyone or anything. And yet.
"Fine, keep up the silent treatment, I don't care, but it really is time to go. The escorts said we're to be at the train station in 30 minutes."
She sits up, finally, and there's something in the moment that frightens her. It's too similar to that night at the beginning of the Games, weeks ago now, when Cashmere woke her up to Seneca Crane's dead body. Cashmere is dressed nicely, in a tailored shirt and pants and stylish sandals, and Johanna is in the pajama-like set they gave her when she was tossed in the cell. Her hair feels greasy and messy. "Do I get to change my clothes?" she asks. She cares very little for her appearance in the Capitol, but she doesn't want to arrive back in District 7 in a prisoner's uniform.
Cashmere turns and presses a little button on the wall, which turns out to be an intercom. "Can you give me Johanna's clothes?" she asks. A minute or two later, they are delivered by a guard, who again leaves. Johanna knows they're watching, though, through the window and with the cameras.
Cashmere hands the clothes through the bars, and sits back on the bench. Johanna takes them, and realizes that she's to change in front of Cashmere. It's not as if she's shy — she's had to undress in front of hundreds of people by now, including Cashmere — it's just that she feels that Cashmere's the reason she ended up in this cell, and also, Cashmere's composure and adequacy only served as a reflection of Johanna's complete lack.
Johanna peels the crappy prison uniform off and feels the dank, cool air on her skin. But it's Cashmere who gasps, just quietly, and Johanna stills.
"Did they do that?"
Johanna looks down, at the area that's been aching for days. There's a purplish bruise extending over her right flank, and a second on her hip. It feels unreal, like it isn't even her body. She's used to the pain, but Remake always made the evidence go away, at least. She shrugs. It isn't worth discussing with Cashmere. She doesn't owe Cashmere anything, and Cashmere has proven that she doesn't owe Johanna shit. She finishes dressing and tosses her prison uniform back on the cot.
Cashmere doesn't press her for an answer, but Johanna can feel the way her eyes are drawn to her torso, as if she's looking for signs of injury even now that Johanna is covered up. But it doesn't work like that. She doesn't get to care now. She hears the electronic click, and the bars slide open. She takes a step toward Cashmere — too close, really — just because she knows it will irritate her.
Cashmere smells like alcohol. She has a mark on her collar, just a small thing, lipstick perhaps. And now, looking closer, Johanna can see that her outfit is a little rumpled, not the perfection she is used to with Cashmere. If she had to guess, Cashmere was with a client, even this morning before they are set to go home, even now that the Games have ended. Johanna can feel bile in her throat.
Her gaze falls on Cashmere's lips, and she forces herself to look away. She's angry again, both at Cashmere and at everyone else. Because who in the Capitol is worthy of Cashmere, really? And how could Cashmere allow this, again and again, without kicking up any sort of fuss at all? "Let's get out of this fucking dungeon," she says, eager to be away from the prison, and Cashmere as well.