She smirks, again, sharper and with less pleasure. Even a drunk like Haymitch was probably still a match for most of these people. There's no pride in that thought, it just is what it is. "Yeah. Another shoddy revolution, and then he's got to try and clean up his mess. You think he'd learn."

The Mockingjay and the end of the Quarter Quell, those weren't Haymitch's fault--not exactly. But he was easy to blame. Someone had talked them all into it. Someone had made them believe it was possible, for a few moments, that they could do something. Whatever else Johanna joined the alliance for, there had been the smallest flicker of something way too close to hope. The chances of her getting out of the Arena were always a little dicey, but being grabbed up by the Capitol and strapped to a chair had wildly skewed her perspective on so much.

The remark about her makes Johanna's smirk a little stronger, like that's something to be proud of. She cocks her hip a little, like she's striking a pose. "Thanks." She drawls the word, dredging it through sarcasm. "He had more time to get old and dull. Means he's a little slower. But I wonder what he'd think of you now?"

Because, yeah: optimistic is definitely not the word that comes to mind, when looking at a probably unwashed man with long unkempt hair, wearing a pretty disgusting robe while cooking up a can of vegetables in deep space. People give up in lots of different ways. Morphling is always the easy way out, but Haymitch had his alcohol, and Johanna has her anger. Everybody learns. Revolutions end badly. It's hard to think of it any other way when she's still pretty fresh out of that gleaming white room.

"Actually, I don't wonder. I bet you've already lost some of that optimistic shine he saw."