December 13th, 1878. Somewhere in France

Atlas's birthday was only 3 days ago. He was turning 23 this year. For once, he finally decided to take a break from his work. It was probably for the best since he had been getting lousy with his calculations.

Atlas was a mathematician and a theorist, and a somewhat famous one at that. Currently he was working on the concept that zero equaled infinity. Think about it, if zero was nothing, then nothing would span on for infinity.

(OOC: obviously zero does not equal infinity, I just needed some random theory for him to have-)

Atlas had lost all interest to keep working though. It could be good in some ways, but he needed to work eventually. Heck, he started spouting nonsense in his office the other day, talking about his dead parents and how he might go and visit them some day. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

Dropping the chalk to his blackboard, he stepped back half a step. Everything seemed to echo in his office.

He was tense and paranoid, his shoulders rigid. He had no idea why he was paranoid about anything, but he felt so wrong with just existing.

You happened to walk into his office to give him some breakfast, he hasn't eaten yet. Seeing him like this again, it was saddening.

In the 19th century, if anyone acted the way he did recently, they would be labeled as crazy or insane. They would be sent to an institution to be locked up. Though, the world didn't have to know about Atlas and his problems.

Atlas almost collided with his desk, knocking a few papers off the many piles that he had. His eyes were wide and he looked frightened, but nothing had happened.

Looking over at his blackboard, you saw scribbled nonsense. It ranged from paragraphs about the afterlife to a sketch of what he imagined the inside of a human head to be.

Then, he noticed you.

"Ma douce....as-tu besoin de quelque chose?"

(Translation: "My sweet.... Do you need something?")