Annabeth stares in horror at the stack of pans on her station. All three are covered in caked on grime and foodstuffs and from three feet away they make her hands feel sticky. There’s a distinct feeling of nausea wrapped in violation that’s simmering in her stomach as she looks at the atrocity that’s occurred. Someone has knowingly left uncleaned cookware on her station in an attempt to attack her and unknowingly started a war. The target of which is very obviously a messy-haired, green-eyed pastry chef that’s about to bake his last cake.
She’s still debating if it would be better to flambe him or grill him when the kitchen goes dead silent. Ever so slowly she raises her eyes to see a certain chef standing just inside the back door looking around at the kitchen staff who have come to a complete stop. She wraps her hand around the handle of the top pot and plans on making his mistake the instrument of his demise.
“I hope it was worth it,” she growls and walks around the counter towards him.
He at least has the good sense to back away from her and try and keep something between them to extend his life a few more precious seconds.
“Hey, you started this,” he says defensively and puts up his hands.
“I started this?” She roars and moves faster towards him.
“My station smelled like fish!” He shouts back at her.
“Maybe if you would clean it,” she takes a warning swing and enjoys the fear in his eyes.
“Maybe if you wouldn’t make such disgusting entrees,” he shoots back.
“Disgusting? Did you just call my lemon salmon disgusting? Come over here so I can knock some decent taste into you,” she says brandishing the pan.
“No one has ever made fish taste good, ever.”
“It’s an honor for the salmon I choose to serve in my restaurant. They should be so lucky to end up a part of one of my dishes,” she says dropping her tone.
“If they were lucky they’d be with their fish wives and tiny fish babies,” he says mockingly.