He'd found a pencil.

It was not much of one. Barely three inches long, worn down so that he had to pick at the tacky, orange plastic coating for several minutes to get more graphite out. Hardly any eraser left, but Fritz rarely used one anyway.

There were no mistakes in art, after all - at least, in his mind. A line that wasn't supposed to be there in the first place was just taking the piece in another direction, even if it wasn't the direction you had intended to go.

He wasn't sure where the pencil had come from - probably stuck absently in someone's backpack on one of the zodiac or senshi trips from here, back to earth, in one of the many retrievals of various supplies. It was obviously forgotten, and he had found it rolling on the floor beside a pillar on his daily stroll through the outpost he currently resided in. Elated, he had stooped to pick it up, then hurried to the library of Aquarius to find something to draw on.

The paper he was using was dusty, yellowed from disuse and crinkled at the edges, folding inwards. There were water spots near one corner, like it had been left beneath something dripping, and one edge was blackened, burned from who knew what. It was not very large either; barely the size of a normal sheet of notebook paper.

He'd picked it up anyway. It had character.

Now he sat, for once, by himself, the bench beneath him a cool, smooth marble that seemed eternally white, bright in the surrounding darkness. There was a glittering pool of crystalline water somewhere near his feet, glinting nearly opaque, but he was not looking at that. Instead, the eyes of Frederick St. James were focused on only one thing: the paper in his lap.

He slowly drew a line.

The graphite crumbled a bit, leaving flecks.

Frowning, his lips tugged downwards, he bent over the paper, carefully and meticulously dotting his thumb over the strewn flakes, pressing them into his skin. Then he smeared them sideways across the paper, leaving behind a thick, bumpy line.

Perfect.

It was quiet, here. He supposed that was normal, since they were in space, but inside the outposts there was always a cacophony of voices, scraping, smashing, shouting, cracking, smacking, and other various noises that indicated life within the Surrounding (as someone had told him it was called). Outside, however, in the shadow of Virgo's temple, it was calm and silent, the only sound that of the paper crackling quietly as he drew.

He made another line. This one was curved, sweeping upwards in a wide arc until it made an oval.

More flecks of graphite from his slowly dying pencil dotted the aged parchment. Dark red eyebrows contracted together slightly as Fritz studied the half-finished drawing. Those particular flakes were in an inconvenient spot, but he would have to make do with them. The tip of his tongue peeked out from between his lips as he concentrated, carefully using his index finger to drag one flake towards the one beside it, creating a still too-thick, shaky line.

Several moments passed in silence, Fritz focusing only on the pencil and paper.

Another line, this one just the right weight. He smiled, satisfied, studying the effect.

It was quite nice.

More moments passed - or perhaps hours. He did not know, nor did he care to.

The finishing line was nearly straight, though with the smallest of curves, graceful and cautiously drawn so that it would not be too big or too small. Fritz leaned back, holding up the old, water-stained, graphite smeared, partially burnt, crumpled old parchment so that he could see it clearly.

Just right.

He stood, stretching his asleep limbs, then quietly made his way back inside the temple of Virgo, carefully folding the drawing and tucking it into his pocket.