The story so far:
Santa Monica 1990
George sat on an overturned bucket in his uncle's mechanic shop, trying to wipe the grease from his hands when a small white old beater of a car pulled up slowly. He stood up and put a hand over his eyes to block the glare of the sunset as drivers door opened and a long-legged dusty man stepped out.
The man wore blue jeans, a red shirt, and a brown vest, though it was difficult to make out any details of the clothing underneath the layers of dust and dirt. The man looked to be in his twenties, though he had a few wrinkles on his face, tough callused hands and hard blue eyes.
George gulped as he stared at the man, and the man stared right back. There was something strange about those eyes. The man suddenly smiled unexpectedly, and for some reason, George smiled right back. He liked this man, though wasn't sure why.
George's uncle, Glen walked out and shook the mans hand. They spoke, the man gestured to the car and then to himself. Glen merely nodded, chewing his lip, which George knew meant his uncle was thinking.
It was towards the end of the day, in fact, George and Glen had been cleaning up, about to close. The other hired help had left, and there were no customers around, just George, his uncle and the strange man.
Suddenly his uncle laughed and patted the man on his back. George caught the words, "We can help you, don't you worry. We'll fix 'er right up." His uncle turned to George and waved him over. George dropped the rag and walked over.
"What do you say about working another hour?" Glen asked grabbing his nephew's shoulder.
"Why not?" George said with a smile and a shrug. He didn't mind the work.
"You know I can't pay..." The man said hesitantly. Glen waved his hand.
"Forget about it. We'll git this old bird up and runnin' in no time. Hey, George, know what this man does? He's a prospector." Glen headed inside to get ready, telling the man to pull the car into the garage when he was ready.
George looked at the man, and the man looked at George. "What's a prospector do?"
The man smiled again and nodded, as if to himself. "I look for mines, oil and the sort." The man put out his hand. "The name's Frank Critzer."
George shook Frank's hand. "George."
Glen and George worked on Frank's car into the night. When it was finished, Glen invited Frank for dinner. Afterwards, Frank insisted on going, Glen stocked him with food and money. Frank promised to cut them in on any mining claims he found in the future, and left.
That was the first meeting between Frank Critzer and George VanTessel.
Glen and George pulled up to the massive rock structure, awe and amazement etched on their faces. They pulled up to Frank's hideaway house, a section carved out underneath the rock that made a nice little cozy home of sorts. Frank met them with a smile and a grand gesture towards the rock. Glen and George got out, shook hands with Frank and chitchatted about the rock. George was captivated and could barely look away for more then a second. There was just something about it. There was some sort of aura about the place, as if strange energy emanated from this rock.
Frank saw the look on George's face and knew he'd completed one of his tasks. The rest of their stay was rather uneventful, and Frank saw them off with a wave. He stood there, watching the car drive away, thinking. He'd lain the foundation for friendship, and knew George was curious about the rock, very curious. Hopefully George would visit again, alone. Frank would be able to talk to him, tell him about the rock. If everything went according to plan. If the enemy didn't intervene.
That was the second meeting between Frank Critzer and George VanTessel, and the last before Frank's death.
It was 1942 and Frank was pouring himself some coffee when he heard vehicles pull up. He glanced out the window, and his eyes widened at the sight of a two cop cars. Two men stepped out of each car, hands kept near their guns on their hips. Each of them wore sunglasses and a cowboy hat.
Frank shook his head. They found him. "Is there a problem officers?" He asked out the window.
"Not a problem, Mr. Critzer. We just want to ask you a few questions." One said as they meandered their way towards the door.
Frank licked his lips. "Just want to talk is all?" The one who spoke nodded. He must've been the man in charge. "****." Frank said. He let go of the coffee cup and concentrated. It flew out the window like it was shot out of a gun and smashed against the leader's head, knocking the man down. Frank ducked and dove out of the way as bullets came through the window.
He scrambled around on the floor to the door and barring it shut. The gunfire stopped. A furious knocking arose on the door.
"Mr. Critzer! Open up! We are the US Marshals!"
"The hell you are!" Frank yelled in response, moving away from the door. He ran deeper into his hole to a device that lay on a table, a device that looked extremely high-tec, with a viewing screen and buttons that looked similar to a keyboard, but with letters no human would recognize. Frank's fingers moved like lightning across the keys.
"We know you've been radioing the germans! If you don't let us in we will use lethal force!"
So that's the excuse they were using? Green symbols rolled quickly across the screen. There couldn't be anything left for them to find. Frank stopped typing and the screen immediately went black. He sighed. A thudding and knocking came from the room behind him, and he heard a hiss as gas began flooding the area. He almost laughed. Those fools, did they have any idea how strong he was? Did they think a rookie had been sent on been given such vital tasks.
Frank ignored the gas and looked out the window. He couldn't see any Marshals, but he could see one of their cars. He pointed at it. Time to show them he wasn't to be taken lightly. He could feel the gas in the car's gastank. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The car exploded, rising off the ground five feet, immolated, before falling again to the earth with a crash.
This was his home! His rock! They dared attack him here and think they could kill him with petty bullets and gas.
There were no cries of 'Holy ****!' or 'what the ****!', nor had there been when he'd hurled the coffee cup impossibly fast through the air. That's because these were not US Marshals, or even from earth. They were just pretending. Frank wasn't scared. Most likely these were a group of grunts sent to kill him. They'd underestimated Frank, underestimated how vitally important Frank's tasks were. Their fault.
"Very well Frank. Have it your way."
Frank stood behind his dinner table across from the door as he heard the impossibly gentle voice speak. With a violent wrenching sound, the door burst from it's hinges and flew at him. He ducked and the door bounced off the table and over him. Gunfire erupted. Frank threw up his hands, beckoning a wall of force to block the incoming bullets. He could see through the gas, see the bodies outside. The gunfire stopped.
"Fools." He muttered, gesturing with both hands. The table in front of him burst into pieces, some small and sharp, others large and heavy, and all flew out the door at Frank's adversaries. "The rock and VanTessel are ours, Venii!" He shouted.
His mind suddenly exploded with pain. He fell to his knees gasping out in agony, clutching his pounding aching head. He couldn't form a thought, the pain was so intense, like daggers, pricking every nerve. Like the world's worst hangover, multiplied by an extremely high number.
He heard laughter and glanced up through tears to see the leader step through the doorway, smiling. It was him, he was a mind-user, and a powerful one. Blood trickled down the side of the man's head as he smirked at Frank.
"VanTessel? He's only the beginning, Frank. You're going to give us answers. I'm going to pick them from your brain as painfully as possible."
A vision came to Frank. Dynamite. A large amount of it was stacked in a box in the corner of the room. He glared at the Venii trying to ignore the throbbing agony. He tried to concentrate, had to. "**** you." Frank said, and the dynamite exploded. The explosion was enormous. Nothing was left of Frank's body but blood on the walls and bits of flesh on the floor. The strange device had disappeared. No Marshal's were killed.
Frank found himself in a white void of nothingness. He had no body, nothing. He would've sighed if he could have. A voice spoke out of nowhere.
"This is unfortunate."
"Yes. Very." Frank replied somehow. "They gave us something though. 'VanTessel's only the beginning.' "
"Indeed. We are giving up on George. You will not have pulled yourself together fast enough."
Frank felt a sense of sadness. He had liked George. "So we give up, let them win?"
"No. Not at all. They were right. He's only the beginning. We will concede this one victory, but it is not over. It is never over."
Frank felt himself become nothing.
BAM! The hotel door was kicked down, and Frank strode into the room. He grinned sadly, happy to once again see George, but sad under the circumstances.
Frank had been hunting George for awhile now, hoping never to find him but knowing in the end, that he would. He had to. They'd gotten to him while Frank was healing. There was only one thing to do now.
George died, and his wife cried. Frank turned to the wife and the aides, who cowered. Venii. To keep close eyes on George. Frank killed them too. He turned to the armed men, and wiped their memories. Then, he was gone.
Rachel. Poor Rachel. She didn't know she was being used. The Venii were winning. The Integration had been built, they'd taken the one powerful human, unleashed the power of Giant Rock into her, and made her believe she was doing good, working for them. Frank sighed, then puffed on a cigarette, sitting atop the great rock, legs hanging out over the edge. And now he had to clean up everything. He wasn't sure what the Veii's endgame was, only that it would be bad for everyone. Eventually, they'd have Rachel go to the Integration and activate something. A doomsday device of some sort. It was sad, really. All the potential VanTessel and Rachel had. If Frank could've had the time...But no, it was too late. Now all that was left was to deal with what happened, and make sure the humans went on as they always had, unaware.
The Integration would have to wait. Rachel was not headed there. Frank sighed again, dropping the cigarette over the edge and watching it fall all the way down. She was headed to Area 51 in the year 1947, after the Roswell UFO incident. There must be something there the Venii want, or need. Frank didn't know much about the Roswell UFO incident. It was a ufo of an old alien race, older then the Venii or Frank's own kind.
Well, time was awasting. He pushed himself off the edge of the rock, and fell seven stories.