The next day, Russia let America go. "There is food in the kitchen." He watched as the other country quickly made his way downstairs to get as much food as he could. When he was finished, Ivan also cut up an apple, cutting himself with the sharp knife. He put it on the table and licked his finger. "You may continue eating. I must go do paperwork in my office." He walked away, leaving the American chewing on the apple.
As much as America still didn't trust Russia, the overwhelming grumbling mixed with pain coming from his stomach had forced him to take what he gave him. Still gnawing on the apple slices, he fingered the band-aid. He had looked down at it almost immediately after Ivan had let him go. He smiled snidely at the fact that it was a light, powder blue with small cartoon-esque sunflowers adorning it.
Alfred finished up the apple, his gaze finding its way onto the knife. His cut couldn't possibly be completely healed in just one day... And the possibility of having a GPS device in his arm didn't appeal to him in the slightest. Not only would it allow the Russian to find him anywhere inside or outside the house, but it would throw a serious wrench into his grand-master plan. To add insult to injury, the thing was probably his technology too... The thing definitely had to go.
He allowed himself to pick up the knife, already knowing that it was sharp enough to cut flesh from the Russian's little incident. Peeling away the band-aid quickly, he walked into a seemingly pointless side room; probably for entertaining 'guests' or something. There, a large, full length mirror allowed America to get the first glance of himself since he had first been taken here. His skin had started turning pale from the lack of sunlight and he had started to lose weight. Other than that, his eyes still had pretty much the same fighting spirit in them.
Turning to the side the cut was on, he looked at it for a few moments before deciding exactly what to do. He didn't want to cut too deep and bleed himself to death, but he definitely wanted the freaking thing out. Bringing the tip of the knife to the preexisting cut, he sliced open the tender skin, drawing a bit of blood, but not much. He screwed up his face a bit in pain, but not a sound escaped. Next was the hard part. He slowly made the cut longer, blood welling out rapidly at the new puncture. Then, he put his finger in, trying to feel around lightly for any foreign object.
"Fuck..." Alfred muttered to himself, wincing in pain. There was nothing he could distinguish being not originally in his body. Desperate, he cut it a bit deeper thinking that maybe Ivan had just pushed it in somehow. Even through the pain, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, he couldn't feel anything. Nothing remotely like the shape of the small, rounded object he had inserted.
Finally giving up, he looked down to the ground, seeing a small pool of blood on the expensive looking floor. He quickly took off his shirt, wiping the worst of the blood from the floor and inconspicuously moving the rug nearby on top of the rest. Before he continued to bleed on the floor, he wrapped up the would with the cleaner side of his shirt. Next, he went to the kitchen, cleaning the blood off the knife with water before placing it back on the cutting board where Ivan had left it.
Holding his arm to help stop the bleeding, America quickly ascended the stairs, trying to make it to his bedroom before Russia would realize that he tried to remove the tracker. Almost as if on cue, the floorboards in front of the commie's room squeaked obnoxiously, making Alfred stop and his heart beat increase.
Knowing what the sound of the squeaking meant, the large country walked to the door and saw America cradling his arm, which was dripping blood. "Well, what have we here? Do you have a squished tomato on your arm?" The look on Alfred's face at the unexpected question told Russia the answer to the pointless question. "If not, then why is there red dripping on my floor? Could it be that you were trying to get the tracker out of your arm, so you made a large cut that will need stitches?"
America looked up at Russia then quickly down the hallway toward his room. If he ran fast enough, he might be able to make it and barricade himself inside. It might not have been said that Alfred had to keep the thing inside of his arm, but it was pretty much a given that he had broken one of Ivan's twisted rules.
Glaring once more at Ivan with sparking blue eyes, he turned around and ran. He didn't hear the extra footsteps of the taller nation as he quickly ducked into his room and with his good arm, slammed the door closed. Just as quick as he ran into the room, he grabbed the chair at his desk and shoved it under the doorknob. It had worked before when England had tried getting him out of his room; he just hoped it would work with Russia as well.
Sitting on the floor, he looked at his arm, wincing again with pain as the shirt pulled slightly at the skin. Alfred could hear Ivan walking toward the door now and was genuinely freaked at what was going to happen to him this time. "God save America." he muttered darkly to himself as he heard Russia reach his door.
Slowly, Ivan took out the small bar on each of the hinges. Then, he swung open the door, the opposite way. "Well, it seems you no longer need a door." And he walked into the room, cornering America. "That is a large cut. It will need stitches. If you come with me, I will fix it up, good as new."
Still sitting, Alfred thought for a moment before standing up. After all, he should have been glad he wasn't dead at this moment. "Fine I'll go with you..." He grumbled under his breath, his eyes scintillating once more. It hurt his pride to be ordered around, but it was better having a hurt pride then a hurt body.
Russia led him upstairs to the medical room. He sterilized a needle and some special thread. When that was good, he told Alfred to sit on the chair. "Don't worry, I have done this before." Then he took the needle and thread over to his patient and threaded the needle.
Alfred watched with wide eyes as Ivan threaded a needle and grabbed his injured arm, pulling it away from his body. "What about drugs?! I'm not letting you do this if you don't give me anything for the pain!" He tried to get his arm away from the vice-like grip but it didn't work.
"But I'm afraid I don't have any with me. There is no other choice." Ivan put the needle to the inflamed skin and pushed it through, ignoring the cry of pain. "You gave yourself such a large cut, but you can't stand this?" He continued sewing up the skin, enjoying the sounds America was making. When he was finished, he cut the thread with scissors, and said "Now all we need to do is sterilize the wound." He took a bottle, and poured pure vodka on the fresh cut. Alfred yelled some swear words at the burning feeling.
"Fuck!" he growled as the alcohol burned the wound. The skin was already pulsing from the cut and now from the new stitches; the alcohol didn't help it at all. America pulled his arm close to his body as soon as Ivan let go of it, cradling it to his body.
"Now, don't go needlessly cutting yourself, just to try to find something that isn't there." Russia said, and walked out the door.
"But I was...Wait, what?!?!" America yelled, running after Ivan. " 'Something that isn't there?!?!' Is this supposed to be some mind-trick, trying to get me to forget about it?! Well it isn't working! I'll get that fucking thing out of my arm somehow!" Russia just continued walking without bothering to look back at the enraged American.
The Russian smiled. Yes, America was learning to not trust him. But perhaps he was learning a little too well. It might not be good if he won't believe some things that are true. Or some things that are false, as well. Although it would be fun watching what else he would try to do to get the imaginary locater out of his arm. He was much too paranoid. Probably thought his boss was holding secrets from him, like if aliens were real or not.
.oOo.
Once again, Russia was away for something or another. 'Probably out torturing cute little seal cubs.' Alfred thought semi-jokingly. Mind you, at this point, that would probably be one of the lesser evils Ivan would commit.
He had waited a week for the Russian to decide that he had to go out again; luckily enough, his arm was almost completely better now and he could move it around without cringing in pain. Even though he should have been grateful for the stitches, they made it more difficult to look for the GPS. Russia had said there was nothing there, but one could never trust Ivan too little.
Since Russia had left, it had created the perfect opening for his plan. Now he just had to set all the parts in place and everything would be perfect.
First, create a 'stand-in'. Something that Russia could see from a distance and think was Alfred. With a sigh and a moment of silence for it, America took off his jacket, placing it on his pillow and leaning it against his desk so it looked like his torso. This way, Ivan would think he was still in his room while the commie was outside. Next, to get all the supplies he hid before. Hopefully Russia didn't find them, because he didn't say anything if he did. If they were gone though, he could just get more from the closet.
Alfred went back to the library to get his stash. He had hidden the items between a dusty old reading chair and the corner of the bookcase. The reasoning behind the spot was that there was more dust then usual around them, and using his epic detective skills, he deduced that it meant Ivan didn't go there too often. It would have been way more difficult if he had maids. After grabbing the stuff, he went down to the kitchen, grabbing a few things to eat for now and later. America didn't want to starve if he got lost. As an after thought, he looked around in the cupboards for the same knife he used to cut his arm. Wrapping it up in a spare hand towel, America forced it in his boot in case he needed to use it.
He put on the boots, long jacket and gloves, then unlocked the door, only for it to fly open and hit the wall. Luckily it didn't leave a mark, but the strong wind was blowing in a lot of snow. Hurriedly, Alfred got outside and shut the door.
Now came the hard part. The fierce wind would either be his enemy or his ally. He trekked determinedly in the now thigh deep snow, incredibly grateful for the thick jacket and tall boots he 'borrowed' from Ivan. First, he walked to the centre of the courtyard a few times from the edge of the house, creating a hopefully unnoticeable pathway. Then, he walked around aimlessly, making it look like he went outside and did just that. If Russia thought he had gone outside for a slight change of scenery, all the better for his plan.
The next few parts relied on Russia being slightly ignorant or at least wiling to wait and see what he was up to, and his own intelligence and memory. Also, Alfred now had to wait for Russia to return from wherever he was. America made his way to the side of the house, digging out the side door he knew was there. While in the kitchen, he had unlocked it so he could wait inside for Ivan to return home.
Through the whistling of the wind, Alfred could hear the faint, telltale sound of the helicopter's blades slicing through the air. That single, distant sound was all he needed to get his heart pumping and adrenaline flowing. This was going to be it. It was either this, or condemn himself to die in this prison. As the sound became louder, he once again returned outside, sneaking along the side of the house and watching the small black dot morph into a giant black copter as it got closer.
Just as it landed, America got a dangerous glint in his eye, similar to when he was at the top of his game. "For life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." he said to himself, grinning. As Russia stepped out of the copter, he tensed himself; these were the few precious seconds he had to wait. Semi-patiently he strained to hear the sound of the door close. When he did, he shot off like a bullet down the pathway he had created earlier and straight for the imposing black helicopter.
As he landed the helicopter, Russia looked, as always, to Alfred's room. He saw a silhouette there, that looked slightly misshapen. Almost like it was just a pillow, meant to look like a human. The next tip off was that it didn't move. This was definitely not America.
When he got out, the snow was deep. But, of course, he liked that. It was so normal for him, he now looked forward to it when returning home. He went inside, ears barely picking out the crunch of snow. He continued up the stairs to go see what was standing in the window in his captive's room. Stepping through the door-less doorway, he saw it was indeed a pillow, with America's infamous jacket. Then he looked out the window, to see the routers start to slowly spin.
Amazed with his luck, Alfred allowed himself to give a celebratory cheer before looking to the dashboard of the unfamiliar helicopter. If it was anything like the models he had at home (which so many were, because the bastard had stolen so many of his blueprints for so many things) he would just let his muscles do the remembering for him. Even with all the switches and buttons labelled in Cyrillic lettering, the memories of countless flights let him start the machine up professionally.
As a safety precaution, he threw the headset on. It was still slightly warm from Russia using them just a moment before, but too much was on the line to be grossed out by it. Alfred grabbed a hold of the joystick and cursed the slowness of the starting blades. Never mind Ivan using the tracker to find him, he would just have to look out of any window and see....Shit. There he was, doing exactly that. The creepy man was in his room, inspecting his look-alike and staring down at him. The real America. 'The real America that needed this' "Fucking helicopter to fucking start!" Alfred continued out loud, cursing the machine.
Hopefully it would take just enough time for Ivan to get outside for him to have already left. Then he could go and find Canada and England and they could move to Antarctica together. After being here for so long, the cold wouldn't bother Alfred nor would it bother Canada. England might try to fight it, but if it meant they could all live peacefully for however long, it'd be worth it. After all, there were penguins there. They would be easy prey, what with them not being scared of humans and all. With any luck they'd taste like chicken; big, fat, waddling chicken.
In a last ditch attempt to get the hunk of Russian metal air born, America moved the joystick.
Ivan got outside just in time to get a glimpse of Alfred moving the joystick. He smiled, watching the cockpit fill up with almost transparent gas. Of course, America wouldn't have known about the safety button. And he wouldn't have known that if you moved the joystick without pressing the button beforehand, it throws a switch, releasing toxic gas. Of course, it would only kill if inhaled for a full minute, so he most likely had time to get out of there, if he didn't pass out before the door was opened.
A face appeared in the window of the door, trying to get it open. A simple task under normal circumstances, but more difficult when under stress.
After sixty-five seconds, the door opened, and America tumbled to the ground, unconscious. He had just managed to get the door open before succumbing to the effects of the gas. He had held his breath long enough, it seemed, to still be alive. Russia went over to the limp body and checked vital signs before picking him up and taking him back into the house. He was still alive, and he would pay for that fact.