Tortured but Together (A Hunger Games Fanfiction) [UNDER EDITING]

Chapter Thirty-Five

A/N: Usual PSA that the Hunger Games characters belong to Suzanne Collins and not to me. After this there's only 5 more chapters to go in this book!! Also, I mentioned a couple chapters ago that I would be making a sequel and I'm happy to announce that it will be called "Broken Dreams and Capitol Schemes." With that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter!!

(Peeta POV)
As I walk through the palace with the peacekeepers, I'm not entirely sure what to expect. Are they actually going to take me to the kitchens, or was that a lie? I feel like I'm never able to tell.

They lead me up and down several sets of staircases, and I wouldn't be surprised if they're taking a more complicated route than is actually necessary. It's probably one of those cases where they don't want to risk me figuring out the layout of this place. Even if I did though, there's not much I could do with that information. Except sell it to district 13 once they get me, Katniss, and Annie out of this place...

On second thought, maybe it is better to keep me from finding my way around. Well, better for them at least, I think to myself wryly.

Eventually, we end up at the kitchens. I can tell that we're there before the peacekeepers even open the door, the wonderful smells and aromas quickly give it away. When the peacekeepers push the door open, all of the chefs stop working; they turn off burners, set down saucepans, and stop kneading bread dough. I'm assuming the peacekeepers don't come here to visit all that often.

A woman who I can only assume is the head chef is the first to speak up. "Might I ask why you're barging into my kitchen?" As I look around, I'm surprised to see that she talks not to me, but to the peacekeepers.

"Apologies head chef Blackwell. The Mellark boy insisted we take him here and our commanding officer ordered us to comply with his demands."

She raises an eyebrow, seeming slightly surprised. "So, baker boy from district 12, what makes you think that you deserve my attention or a place in my kitchen," she asks, putting her hands on her hips, waiting for my answer.

"There are 300 people that I need to feed and I can't make that much food on my own. I was told that you and the rest of your chefs would be willing to assist me."

She lets out a humorless chuckle. "So you're expecting us to just drop what we're doing and make a massive buffet for three hundred people? If I came to your bakery would you put up with me demanding that of you or would you kick me out of your kitchen?"

Chef Blackwell does have a point, if she came in and talked to me like that I would kick her out of my kitchen, before my mother got involved. At the thought of my dead family and destroyed bakery, I can't help the tear that slips out of my eye.

"What, so now you can't even take criticism? Some chef you are," she says, turning her back on me.

No...I won't just let myself be pushed aside like that. "I can take criticism, I'm not weak or spineless or anything like that. I survived the Hunger Games, twice. It was just a single tear and the reason I got it was because I was thinking about my home. District 12 was my home and it got bombed, the bakery didn't make it out and neither did my family. So if having a single tear pop into my eye when I realize that a large part of my life is gone and will never come back makes me a bad chef then so be it."

Chef Blackwell turns around at that, and laughs, a full hearty laugh this time. "Alright Mellark, you've sparked my interest. It's not often that someone is daring enough to talk to me like that. How can my chefs and I help you?"

I tell her that we need to make enough food to feed three hundred people, and that it should be healthy and filling. She nods at me, and again directs her attention to the peacekeepers. "Now, the rest of you, either wash your hands and put on an apron or get out of my kitchen," she says firmly.