Destruction. He reveled in it. He loved to experience it. Death was the only thing he could offer these poor, unfortunate souls. The sweet release of death. No gift could be more precious. He and his companion were the instruments of death.

Their master, Horacio Bunanza, was their creator and their best friend. He was an intelligent young man of about twenty-five years of age. No one was more revered in their small town of Goug. He wasn't really a bad man, but Bart Rudvich had forced him into attacking random towns all over the world. None of their armies could stand against the destructive power of Worker 8 and Worker 7-new. The original Worker 7 had been destroyed by a pesky Beoulve and his companions. His name might have been Balbanes. Even they could barely stand up to it's power though. Never before had creatures of their caliber been allowed to walk the earth. And Horacio Bunanza was on the verge of mass production of these terrible machines of death.

"I trust production is going well Horacio?" Rudvich said from the shadows of Bunanza's huge underground laboratory.

"Huh?" Poor nervous Bunanza jumped about a foot every time Rudvich spoke.

"I asked you how production was going you slimy maggot," Rudvich spat venomously.

"Well, production was going very well," Bunanza replied.

"Was?" Rudvich raised a graying eyebrow.

"Well, yes," Bunanza continued. "We were building them, and they came out fine. But then we ran into a small problem along the way. We found that after five minutes, the duplicates just shut down. I think the reason it didn't happen with the original Workers was that they were infused with the power of a Holy Stone. So we need to equip one of them with another, or find an equally powerful energy source."

"Like this?" Rudvich held up the Zodiac Stone Taurus.

"W-where…"

"From your son. Besrodio."

"If you touched one hair on his head, I'll-"

"You'll what? Bore me to death with another one of your theories," Rudvich chuckled evilly. "If you don't make another of them, I'll kill him."

"No! Please!" Horacio said. "Don't hurt my son."

"So make another one," Rudvich said, maddeningly calm. He was a very composed man who rarely lost his temper.

"Well, Worker 6 is under construction right now," Horacio said. "I'll go have them fix the power circuit to draw power from this. Just give me the Holy Stone."

"No. Take me with you."

"Fine then," Horacio replied. He and Rudvich walked away. Worker 8, or the alias he usually went by, had seen all of this unfold before his optical sensors. His memory bank recalled this scene as he had been tapped into the security cameras at the time. Nothing like that had been made since because Horacio was the only one who could make such a machine. And everyone knows what happens to those who stand up to Bart Rudvich.

The data files continued, helping Worker 8 to remember more about Bart Rudvich. In the public's eyes, Bart Co. was just another shipping corporation, renown not withstanding. Of course, the people liked it because of it's good PR and the heavy donations it made to orphanages and other charitable causes. But deep under all that, Bart Co. was just another piracy business, smuggling opium and illegal weapons for Rudvich and his troops to use. The were nothing more than a criminal outfit.

But the real scandal Bart Co. was involved in had nothing to do with that. Horacio had accidentally tapped Worker 8 into the Bart Co. computer mainframe that Horacio had set up. He saw a habitual appointment for Rudvich with the resident priest, Onoti, every Thursday night at midnight. He mentioned this to Horacio, and he had followed the two deep into the Zigolis Swamp. There he saw the priest hold a small animal over his head, break it's neck, and feed it's blood to Rudvich. This deeply disturbed Horacio, and with good reason, so he took a month or two off and did some researching with Simon at the libraries of Orbonne. It turned out that Bart Rudvich had supposedly died dozens of years ago from consequences related to the Holy Stones. That got Horacio thinking, perhaps Rudvich was trying to make himself live forever. Of course Horacio couldn't let this secret be swept under the rug, so he decided to confront Rudvich by himself.

"And guess how that turned out," Horacio's voice came from behind Worker 8. The robot turned around as quickly as he could, and saw the feeble form of his old master as he remembered him. Long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, soft, blue eyes, engineer's clothing, and a gun holster on his right hip. "I was killed by Rudvich, and all mentions of me and my work were erased. You were deactivated, and thrown into the Bugross (A/N: Forgot how to spell that. Can anyone help?) Sea. Your cousin was sent to guard the Nelveska Temple, and the other prototypes were disassembled and put into other projects. All my hard work. I just wanted to see one of my children in action."

"Your offspring Besrodio is now fifty one years old. A widower with a single son, he has worked on several other projects, including myself and an inter-dimensional mobile. He has-"

"I know all that stuff," Horacio said. "God lets me watch over the people I love. I'm talking about my other children."

"Me?" Horacio nodded. "I have plenty of optical data-"

"I don't want optical data," Horacio said, putting up his hands. "Fight me. Come on, don't be scared. Disobey your primary objective and hit me."

"But I am just a pile of circuits," Worker 8 said. "That was the first thing you told me. I cannot disobey my primary objective and harm the one who created me. I can never rise above my programming. I have limits."

"So break them," Horacio declared simply. "Well that and my nose."

"I can't."

"You must."

"No," Worker 8 yelled as his brain sparked. "I will NOT hurt you."

"Good," Horacio said. "You're such a good, little mindless robot. And if you don't hit me right now, that's all you'll ever be. A mindless, soulless, robot, easily controlled, easily manipulated, and eventually the enemy will get a hold of you and you will hurt the people you care about. It happened to Worker 7-new, and it WILL happen to you. SO HIT ME!"

"Shut up!" Worker 8 screamed as a giant spark came from his cranial area. He lifted a giant hand up and swung it at the young engineer. His whole body shattered, and he disappeared.

"Good," his voice floated from Worker 8's chest. The robot looked down at his chest, and felt Horacio emanating from it. He wasn't quite sure how he knew, but his creator was with him.

"Now, for the trip back to conventional reality," his voice resonated throughout the small factory. The entire room turned white.

A/N: Alright, there are a few things I'd like to clear up here and now so it doesn't confuse the hell out of anyone else like it did the first poor souls to review this fic.

One: The original characters. Masahiro, Ophelia, Strawberry, and Kylie. They are varied, unique characters who have distinct personalities that will be dealt with during their respective chapters. That is including job class, appearance, and other important tidbits.

Two: Kletian. He never really struck me as evil, just misguided. Like most of the Shrine Knights. But more on them later. Possibly in a separate story. Anyway, he is a special case. Vormav is either dead or he sold his soul to Lucavi, which I don't believe. Rofel sold his soul to Lucavi and probably died. Balk sold his soul and definitely died. Izlude was killed by Hashmalum. Meliadoul joins your team. Weigraf is driven to his own self-destruction by vengeance. Beowulf quit because he was all ticked off at Buremonda. Kletian is the only one who still has his soul, is alive, didn't quit, and has a conscience. He won't exactly be the president of the Ramza Beoulve Fan Club, and he won't like any of the others, except his fellow Shrine Knights, Mel and Beowulf. He'll be detached, but somehow always connected to the main events of the story, like Yu-Gi-Oh's Seto Kaiba.

Anyway, I hope that clears up a few things. I hate Worker 8 and couldn't really think of something for him, so this was kind of a short chapter. But next is Cloud Strife, and then we're into the other, slightly more important characters.