The Ploy~ RusAme Fanfic

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

~Ivan~

I watched as America strode confidently out of the auditorium and annoyance flickered through my mind. Something about him just pissed me off and I couldn't pinpoint it, which pissed me off even more.

Maybe it was his shit-eating smirk, the way he held himself, or his unwavering confidence. Or maybe it was the way he dressed or the sunglasses that he always wore no matter the weather, indoor and outdoor.

He had no reason to be that confident. Sure, he might be the poster picture of a typical high-school jock, but other than that, he had no good attributes. He had the mental capability of a rock and the personality of a yappy dog. The country was stupid, yet somehow he had managed to evade China and North Korea by shooting them a single glance.

Something was wrong with this picture, and I wasn't going to let up until I found out what was happening. If America truly was a threat, which I was starting to believe more and more, I needed to neutralize him before he became more popular than he already was. He was plotting something, and I was going to find out what it was.

UN continued to ramble on about the coming camping trip and I decided that I wasn't going to sit through another half an hour of this shit. My time was better spent spying on America.

The mention of spying sent a familiar thrill down my spine. Back when Father had been alive, he and America had circled each other, spying back and forth in an attempt for a race to the moon. The biggest rivalry, perhaps, was the battle between capitalism and communism. The two had worked feverishly on spreading their beliefs in a semi-healthy competition.

Well, the competition had been healthy until America silenced him. He cut Father down in a show of power and left him to rot by himself. His last moments had been suffering, and it was all America's fault. America's greatest mistake was likely in leaving me alive, but the previous dying attacks that Father had inflicted on him left him open so that he hadn't been strong enough to finish Soviet or his son off. Instead, he left Father to starve in the harsh winter winds and simply left me trying to piece together the broken country that Soviet's death had left behind.

When America killed him, he passed Father's rage onto me. Little did America know, I was just as dangerous as Soviet and twice as sleuthing. After his death, America and I had kept our distance while closely watching each other's backs. I'd never forgiven America for what he did, and I wouldn't.

My fists tightened. I had to follow him. Both because he was plotting something and because I owed it to Father.

I raised my hand and the teacher dismissed me. I pushed myself out of my seat and started toward the bathroom. As I walked, my thoughts swirled with possible scenarios that could play out.

I didn't think that America would try to harm me because his chances of that were slim, but if he was planning to outwit me, I needed to be on my guard. I doubted that he was plotting to do anything drastic, but I wasn't going to take my chances.

Better to overthink than to not think at all.

When I reached the bathroom door, I debated strangling him if the opportunity arose, but I decided to figure out what to do once I saw America.

When I walked in, America was standing in the mirror, washing his hands with fervor, but I didn't buy it. To prove my thoughts, I reached a hand out and he flinched but attempted to mask it by yawning and turning around.

He pretended to jump. "Russia? What are you doing here?"

I stepped forward, his acting only serving to make me angrier. If he thought he could dupe me, he was wrong. "Drop the act."