Hi! Er... I don't have much to say, so let's begin!

Deja Vu: noun: 1. The feeling of having already seen or done something

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Germany waved to Italy and Japan as swung his legs into the steel gray military plane, clutching the small white flag Italy had given him. Farther up on the runway came dull the roar of many revving engines as the other pilots in the fleet prepped for flight. He was about to pull the heavy door closed when he heard a sharp, loud shout. "Germany! Germany!" The Germany in question turned to see the auburn haired man grinning at him. "Stay safe!"

Germany showed one of his rare smiles that didn't really fit his face and nodded to Italy. "I will."

Swinging the door shut with a muffled thump, Germany adjusted himself in the crowed cockpit of the bomber and stowed the small flag next to him, in the gap between the door and the seat. With a burst of static, the speakers built into the control panel buzzed to life as his brother's voice came over the radio. "Hey West! This the awesome me telling you to hurry up! ...over."

Germany flipped the row of chrome switches on the roof of the cockpit and eased the large control stick forward. The cockpit lurched and the near silence of the inside of plane was filled with a dull and muffled roar as the plane pushed forward along the runway. The sprawling military complex flashed by as the aircraft picked up speed, jumping up and down. Suddenly the earth dropped away, the gray buildings replaced by the overcast sky.

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Holy Rome waved to Italy as the wagon he was sitting on rolled away, last in the military procession, shouting farewells and goodbyes to the other boy. The loud, thudding rhythm of soldier's feet, clopping of hooves and the creaking of many wagon wheels drowned out the young boy's shouts. Not that either of them cared.

The scenery moved by as the grand mansion and it's sprawling lawns got smaller and smaller, Holy Rome watching his family until they were eventually swallowed up by the horizon. A quilt-like patchwork of grain, grasslands and gardens replaced the manicured houses, the seemingly endless farmland dotted with tiny farmhouses and stables, all of it belonging to the Holy Roman Empire, the greatest power in all of Europe. A warm breeze rustled the tall stalks of wheat, making waves and flapping the Reichssturmfahne in the wind.

The sun was hanging low over the horizon when the army stopped, brushing the tree tops with gold. The temporary camp was filled with bustle of soldiers lighting fires, preparing the piles of rations or setting up many field tents. The air was filled with rowdy voices who had probably had too much to drink as campfires illuminated the large meadow, flicking glowing sparks into the sky. As Holy Rome moved towards those setting down cots, he could hear the legionnaire's anxious conversations, all muddled together.

The reason for chatting of the soldiers was clear. They were going to war.

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This is going to be a REAL story! WITH PLOT! Review! Or flame, if you have basis!