They weren't even particularly beautiful hands; not by conventional standards anyway. The knuckles were rough and cracked, the nails of the right index and third finger were stained yellow by nicotine, and so was the skin around. He could also see the callouses from a life lived by the gun in the grips of Sanzou's hands -- hands so unlike his own, which were small and dainty, clothed chastely in white. Hazel couldn't take his eyes away from those pale, mistreated monk hands. Besides, it was easier to stare at them than to lift his eyes and meet that cold glare of the monk himself.

Heretic, no, heathen and of heathen clergy too. A monk of sorts, though he displayed few if any of the virtues Hazel associated with monks. In place of humility, temperance and faith, there were arrogance, vice and no sign of spirituality at all. And yet -- and yet...

When he watched this man, this Genjou Sanzou, pale and golden, he perceived a holy man. It was astounding and unsettling to be near him, because it was as if Sanzou walked in his own dimension. Like now, Hazel was sitting right across the table from him, so close that he could touch the monk if he just stretched out his hand -- but he couldn't reach him. You could see Sanzou, you could speak to him, you could be scolded and yelled at by him, he could hit you, and you could plant a knife between his ribs and watch as white became crimson; but you could never, ever connect.

Hazel watched as those hands (human hands, flesh and blood) magicked forth a cigarette and a lighter, then disappeared for a moment to place the poison between thin, distant lips. (Why does a holy man inhale poison?) So wrong. Such improper behaviour. How was it possible for this alien heretic to spit in the eye of his own virtue? Why would he want to?

All those untouchable things Hazel perceived in the man sitting across the table from him; the enlightenment, the otherworldliness, the strength, the razor-sharp perception -- they were all carefully hidden, camouflaged beneath countless layers of all that was foul. Foul words, foul actions, foul living, foul associates...

That last layer was particularly disgusting. How in Heaven's name could someone so bright and pure tolerate companions so black and filthy? Sanzou had made it clear that he knew what they were, so why didn't he destroy them like he did the other demons? Hazel couldn't, wouldn't understand or accept this. Not after he had seen the divine light in those cold, purple eyes.

He, Hazel, would have to do what Sanzou was unable or unwilling to do; it was the only logical conclusion. Hazel had made his pact with the Lord to rid the world of these monsters who held souls stolen from God. Now this mission had become even greater, because here he had a lost soul in more desperate need of rescue than any he had seen before. A soul so bright it almost hurt to look into the eyes of its earthly shell, yet blinded and bound by ignorance and lies. (Surrounded by poison.)

The three disguised demons he travelled with would have to be destroyed, like all their ilk. Only then could Hazel have any hope of tearing down those walls that held Sanzou's soul confined and hidden from the eyes of the world. And when he'd managed that, he knew Sanzou would join him and take up the holy duty of purifying Earth and wrenching the lost sparks of divinity away from darkness.

And then maybe, just maybe Hazel would be allowed to touch those hands. At that point he would shed his gloves and fold his naked hands over Sanzou's and kneel with him in prayer and...

Hazel started back to the present as the stump of a cigarette was brutally crushed into the ashtray on the table. Before he could find his voice, the golden saint pushed back his chair and left the table in a flurry of white robes and vicious silence.

Hazel pushed his wistful fancies back to the dark recesses of his mind. It was time to get ready.