Ross didn't have to wait long. One hour after pacing his office, wondering which contacts to pull to seize control of Sector Seven, a knock came at the door.
Annoyed at being interrupted, he called out, "Come in."
His personal aide stepped in, visibly nervous, holding a small envelope. After saluting, he spoke cautiously, "Sir, this envelope was dropped inside the base. It's signed by Devonshire."
"Dropped?" Ross snatched the envelope. "Are our radar operators blind, stupid, or just incompetent? And how the hell does William Devonshire know I'm at this base?"
"Um…" The aide flinched under Ross's glare. "Radar picked up nothing, sir. But someone saw a cloaked aircraft flicker over the training yard. Judging by the signature, it had to be Devonshire's spaceship.
As for how he found you—if you want, I can order a full forensic scan of the base's network."
Ross cursed, "Damn Englishman. Damn Devonshire."
But after venting, he cooled down. "Fine. Sweep the servers for breaches. And get out."
"Understood, sir." The aide saluted again and hurried off.
Ross, still frustrated, tore open the envelope. Inside was a small black case. He removed a micro storage chip and inserted it into the secure terminal.
Moments later, classified data on England's research into the Decepticons appeared on screen.
After skimming the documents and confirming their authenticity, Ross summoned the base's specialists.
When the experts confirmed the material was real, he dismissed them, then slumped into his chair, deep in thought. Finally, he picked up the phone and started making calls.
The next morning, flanked by his security detail and aide, Ross boarded a helicopter bound for Washington.
At the White Palace, President Benjamin Arthur was more than pleased. Ross had prevented the Decepticon-related scandal and base destruction from leaking and successfully intercepted British secrets. Even better, he reported to the President directly rather than taking it up through standard channels.
Gratitude demanded reward. Within days, a proposal from the Pentagon landed on the President's desk.
Suddenly, Ross—who had seemed all but finished—was given full funding to continue the Super Soldier Program and was granted command of the newly renamed Transformers Response Force, formerly known as Sector Seven.
Unlike the previous brigadier general in charge, Ross was a hardened lieutenant general with far deeper connections and authority. Personnel, resources, and weapons were his to command.
Yet as he pored over the data on the Decepticons provided by William, Ross hesitated. After much deliberation, he summoned Emil Blonsky.
"How's the recovery?" he asked.
Short and stocky, Blonsky stood at attention. His face was grim. "I hate to admit it, but I'm probably done. Even if I heal completely, I'll never return to peak form."
Ross already knew that. But he had his reasons for choosing Blonsky over countless others. He wanted someone with nothing left to lose—driven by rage and vengeance. Someone who had been personally destroyed by William Devonshire, the same man Ross didn't fully trust.
"Come with me. I want to show you something."
He led the puzzled and bitter Blonsky down to the base's underground lab. Ross pointed to a bed that looked more sci-fi than surgical.
"If you're willing to stake your life," he said, "we might not only restore you—but turn you into something more. Much more. Strength, endurance, intellect… beyond any human limit.
If you can survive the serum's side effects, you'll be able to crush ten of your old selves like insects."
"Is that even possible?" Blonsky frowned.
Ross's tone turned cold. "I'm a soldier—and your superior. I don't have time for jokes."
"But you've heard the warning. There are risks. Side effects. You might die."
Instead of fear, Blonsky's eyes lit up.
"No need to think it over, General. I was already planning to go rogue, track down White Ghost, and die taking him with me.
Now that I have a shot at real revenge—at getting back into the fight—side effects mean nothing. I'll claw my way out of hell if I have to… and drag him in with me."
Ross blinked, both impressed and slightly disturbed. "Want to know who's backing White Ghost?"
He expected a question—but Blonsky just shook his head.
"I'll deal with White Ghost first. If I can't kill him, what's the point of knowing who's pulling his strings?"
Ross looked at him in a new light.
But Blonsky had his reasons. He was a battle-hardened warrior, not a fool. His refusal to rise through the ranks and stay in the field didn't mean he was dumb. A moron wouldn't have lasted 20 years on the front lines or risen to lieutenant colonel.
And after experiencing that miraculous healing magic, Blonsky suspected the one who saved him—whether an enemy of White Ghost or a force behind him—was tied to powers far beyond normal humans.
So he wisely chose to hide his thoughts.
He'd survived countless battlefields, and his instincts told him that even Ross could flip on him if the price was right.
Right now, none of that mattered. All that mattered was seizing this once-in-a-lifetime chance to become powerful again.
Blonsky saluted, stripped to his shorts, and lay down on the surgical table.
They say bad men are hard to kill—and in Blonsky's case, it proved true.
Enduring unimaginable pain, he survived the transformation. When he awoke, he flexed his fists and felt a power unlike anything he'd known.
Forget ten versions of his old self—he could probably wipe out a hundred.
Ross, having rushed over after receiving the report, watched Blonsky perform superhuman feats on the training field with undisguised satisfaction.
Yet in the back of his mind, the general pondered: was the success due to Blonsky's physique, or his mental resilience?
Turning to his aide, he ordered a new recruitment protocol: look for subjects with deep-rooted hatred and unresolved vendettas.
And with that, he brought Blonsky to the Transformers Response Force HQ and began planning their first mission—against the Decepticons.
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