The American glanced down at the metal plate etched with the number three on a birch door. The hallway was drab and uniform. The walls were grey, lighting dim, and carpet dull. If Hannah didn't know any better, she'd say she was in the ghetto.
She unlocked the door and her green-grey eyes swept the room.
Just in time, Hannah remembered to remove her tennis shoes by the door as it swung closed. There was an archway with a light bulb above her head. The American strode down the mini hallway, which led to an open area.
A small kitchen-dining room to her left and two doors to her right, Hannah dropped her things with a relieved sigh. Before the American was a beat up couch and old television set on a stand. The walls were white, cracked dry wall showed, lights needing repairing, everything was sorely under-technologically developed.
Why did I ever leave America? Hannah wondered, dragging her backpack and suitcase into a bedroom. The bedroom was amazing. The burgundy walls beautifully reflected the gold trimming and royal purple carpeting. Light streamed through two large porthole-like windows.
The bed was plump with inviting silk, deep purple plush pillows and a maroon bedspread. Around the entire bed was a veil of filmy wine-colored cloth that was tied back by thick gold braids.
An ancient Mac sat in a lonely corner on an old rickety desk. Hannah smiled. At least she wasn't isolated from the world.
Starting back into the kitchen-dining room, Hannah frowned at the shabby living room and resolved to repair the place. Bring it up to date American style.
Hannah went to inspect the bathroom and was met with another not-so-pleasant sight. Everything was covered in a layer of…something. The sink, tub, and toilet were cracked; the light didn't operate, and the mirror was surviving by prayer alone.
Upon discovering nothing in the eating area of her new living quarters, Hannah decided to unpack before anything else. After everything was unpacked, there was no stalling.
The American took out her money the shinobi had given her. Two hundred dollars.
Hannah began to plan.
Unfortunately, her scheming was interrupted by her loud stomach whining.
Hannah considered a visit to the grocery store, but paused. There were no grocery stores, only market places around here. She sucked on her teeth. Where the hell was the market place?
The American dressed in sandy brown corduroy pants and a loose fitting white tee that said 'Who are you and why are you reading my shirt?' The look was topped off with white sneakers.
Hannah locked the apartment door, noting the lock needed replacing, and left the building. She wandered far and near the Kazekage tower, and decided to follow a group of people that passed by. The problem was there was no one to follow. It had been roughly two hours since she had left the apartment.
Wiping gathering sweat on her brow, Hannah saw a woman in robe-like clothing coming from a street with a bag of condiments. The female trusted her gut instinct –and stomach- and went the opposite way people with food were coming from.
This landed Hannah in the market square.
People streamed past the American in all directions. It was like congested traffic. Keeping one hand firmly on her money, Hannah made her way to the crowded food venders.
The American's stomach was ecstatic to see rows of food, all neatly filed- fruits, veggies, dry foods. She bought what she needed, which was expensive, and turned to leave but bumped into a tall guy.
"Sorry," Hannah murmured, keeping her face ducked.
The man made no complaint. Pausing at a less hoarded vender, Hannah asked the old man, "Why are the prices about as high as the Kazekage tower?"
He smiled, amused by her simile. "Prices are about as high as the Kazekage tower because a great majority of our food is imported. Greenery can't be grown in the desert."
"Then why are there desert flowers?" Hannah asked slyly, but it made sense. It would go against all laws of physics and nature if an apple orchard sprung up in the middle of a desert. Now to find the apartment…
P-p-P-p-P-p-P-p-P
Hannah polished off a tomato in her kitchen back at the apartment. On the poor table was all that was left from her shopping excursion- five bucks. In America, although prices were high, Suna's prices bordered insane.
The teen sighed. She should have been more prepared. Now she would have to get a job.
The American wondered what jobs she could find in the desert. She was a fine artist, writer, dancer, technician, and computer nerd- if that counted.
Roaming town, dusk was setting. Hannah didn't mind. America had transformed her into a nocturnal creature. Falling into a fast pace, she scoured the streets and found a paint shop. Hannah pinched the five dollars in her pocket and entered.
"Hello?" she asked bravely loud. Despite it was a paint shop, one would never be able to tell. Everything was gray and colorless. Two ceiling fans circulated cool air. A drying bill board on the counter caught her attention- help wanted.
An old woman with a face that could curdle milk appeared. Hannah managed a straight face and said boldly, "I would like to apply for the job offer." She pointed to the drying sign.
The woman eyed her coldly and Hannah felt her cheeks flame. "My name is Yuri, the manager. Your minimal pay will be three dollars unless I see fit to give you a raise," Yuri instructed. Hannah felt her spirits sinking with each word. "Fill out this paper for how long you would like to work here."
Hannah scribbled down a number, all the while studying her new boss.
The woman had pale blue hair resembling cotton candy, ice-fire purple eyes, and the faded purple robe hid her body. Protecting her forehead was a bandana with a metal plate engraved with an hourglass- the symbol of Suna. Far as personality went, Hannah could only guess something had happened to the old woman's family or life to make her bitter. Her old boss was jealous of Hannah's youth.
"What's my first task?" The employee blew out in a prepared breath.
Yuri grabbed the large board. "Mop the floor, shine the windows, and paint the walls. No cute, girly images." Well that was not difficult. Hannah wasn't much of a girly-girl anyway.
"Dasai," Yuri muttered under her breath as her freshest employee mopped the floor. "That is moping? I want you on your hands and knees with a scrub! Haiyaku!"
Hannah knew her boss had called her pathetic and barked to hurry. Humiliated, the proud American scoured the floor until her fingers blistered. The next odious task was to wax the surface, which Hannah did, including her pants.
As the floor dried, she painted two walls white before washing and polishing the counter. Being a natural busy bee that put her heart into work, Hannah was inwardly relieved when her taskmaster was satisfied- barely.
"What are you standing around for, gariben?! Paint the ceiling too!" barked Yuri, causing her slave to jump three feet into the air.
Hannah pursed her lips and covered everything with newspaper. Wearing a large apron, she grabbed a brush and began to paint. "Done," she sighed after two hours, a back sore, and neck ache later. Yuri 'accidentally' bumped into the ladder, triggering the white paint to spill- bucket and all- on her.
Hannah was near tears when she removed the tin can from her head without a word. "Look at the mess you have made!" scolded the ruthless slave master. "It is a good thing you had enough sense to cover my floor and counter!"
The American swallowed the lump in her throat as Yuri stomped off, leaving her to gather the newspaper, empty paint bucket, and clean the spilled paint.
This was so not worth three bucks an hour.
Dasai- (adj) pathetic
Haiyaku- hurry
Gariben- one who studies too much