[Sunlight filters through the treetops, the sound of birdsong and activity nearby a strange melody.
An Italian sits leaned against a tree, wings curled gingerly against his back. He isn't sure where he is, what happened, or why he has wings, but he knows that he is less than happy about the whole thing. For one, there's no pasta here! At least not
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Hey! You okay there?
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Ve... I don't want to turn into England, his food is terrible and he has no sense of style and...
[Cue a breakdown into terror at this notion.]
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Doesn't mean the first thing he does when he gets near a mirror is make sure he's not developing bushy brows.]
V-ve... w-well, England's the only guy I know who says he can see fairies, and I don't want to be him. He can't cook, especially not pasta. And he's kind of mean too.
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