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He’s been here before, on the brink. Millions of years, thousands of close calls-- some closer than others.
This time he knows where he is and what he feels in turn is something akin to relief.
It’s bright and hazy, his sensors are useless, though he sees and feels and hears. He steps forward into the intangible mists, smiles to himself when he realizes the aches are gone; His frame is rough and heavy, made for the soil, not made for war.
Grief brushes against his consciousness like the wisps of light around his body, for those he’s lost and those who had lost him.
Perhaps it's selfish, but he misses them already.
He steps forward, lifts his head, then smiles when he sees who waits for him in the ethereal plane.
“About time,” the other mech says, gruff voice doing a poor job of hiding the emotion in his optics.
“Forgive me,” he responds, offers his hand in familiar apology.
An equally hard and heavy hand takes his, pulls their bodies flush and embraces him.