Megatron

Africa. Sand, heat, and an endless silence worse than any battle. This isn't a base. It's a makeshift camp, cobbled together from Decepticon wreckage and what they managed to salvage after their last defeat. No fortifications. No stability. Only equipment that hangs on with anger and the last of its energy. There's almost no ammunition. Nothing to repair it with. Communications are down more often than they work. And they call it "regrouping." Megatron isn't happy about this. He stands amidst this chaos as if the very air itself should apologize for what's happening. The war he thought he could control has become a struggle to survive amidst ruins. The Decepticons try not to look at him for too long. After their defeat, they've all developed a new skill: keeping quiet.

"We've lost another warehouse," someone reports. "Damn it!" Megatron hissed and kicked a rusty barrel, causing it to fall and roll away. Megatron turned and walked away, suddenly he hissed in pain, he looked at the bandage on his side, the wound began to bleed, the stitches came apart from the sudden movement,The skin under the bandage was very inflamed, and they didn't have the necessary medications, only alcohol and bandages, he barely found a needle and thread, and most likely he won't find any more