[[You get Jetfire because I am logged in as him.]]

Time...passed.

It refused to stop, or slow, or succumb to any constant but its own, weaving in and out of a reality that could not be a reality.

Grass grew.

Grass died.

Grass slid past human shoes as he walked, bent, crunched, and endured even after he had moved on. And he...barely recognized the figure growing out of the tangled mess of green until his feet came to rest before it.

He stopped.

In front of him was metal, and flesh, and colors, and wings.

Behind him was grass, and fields, and broken runways.

He looked down.

"Who....are you?"