id: 488
name: The Aleutian Mountain Observatory
author: Maus
date: 19th August 2021
text len: 6495
views: 80

The white mountains contrasted against a grey monolith of concrete that revealed itself in-between gales of snow; a four-storied structure with windows reminiscent of that of a castle's which gave no view of what was inside. It was a large, imposing, size, as each story was more like three stories of a normal building. The structure was trimmed bare with only a lighter-grey fascia adorning the building for every floor, with what seemed like a balcony on top of the first floor only, but with no door.
Donovan tugged at his backpack's strap as he waded upwards through the knee-deep snow toward the structure. Only after getting closer could he see what seemed to be a glass half-dome on the southern side of the building from the second floor, with the dome peaking to the roof. He trudged over the snow-covered hill and saw an entrance; a small, jutting part of the building with an austere looking door with a single lamp over top, flickering in the storm. He thought it must be some sort of service entrance, as there wasn't a window for the entire wall. 
He quickly jotted a note down. "Found huge strange building in snowstorm; do not know where I am." As Donovan mused, he became wary of his need for shelter from the striking cold. He slipped the notebook away and was just about to make way again when he noticed something. A path; albeit a snow-scarred path. He found this to be the most odd thing for some reason. He couldn't put it to a thought as to why. Dutifully, he followed the path to the entrance of the building making much easier way. He looked down as he walked but could not see another persons footprint. To be honest, he thought, he wasn't expecting a footprint in this weather.
The door was metallic with a simple levering door handle. His gloved hand pressed against the surface of the door, and even through a glove, he could feel the intense freezing temperature of it's icy sheet-metal skin. Not a sign was fixed to any surface around, nothing but the want of entering the strange building. Donovan looked down at the handle and, with one slow movement, he levered at it, cracking ice sliding down the door as it was turned. The door, with every sound announcing it's material, slowly opened, wind howling through the opening he created as he awed at the darkness. It was a blanket of black which his eyes could not accustom too at such short notice. In a moment of consideration to civilization he had forgotten from over a month of trekking, he stumbled inside and closed the door to the weather; a deafeningly loud proposition as the steel door slammed with a sound that reverberated in the soft air until it dampened to only the high pitched whisper of wind seeping in the cracks and twitching creaks of a structural-inside he could not see.
"Hello." spoke a soft, feminine voice. Donovan shot his eyes around the blackness. The voice was accented and welcoming, but a welcome voice in a world of darkness is one to be wise too. Donovan raised his glove to his mask, and for the first time in two days he levered it off his face, white snow giving way to equally toned hair. A new-found warmth shook his face, his cheeks', red as roses, found long-forgotten colour returning. After a drawn breath, he spoke to the darkness ahead politely. "Hello, strange voice in the darkness." He was proud of his first words to another after so long being painted with his famous dry wit, even if they did come out a bit slurred. Ever expecting of a response, he instead got an audible snap of fingers, licks of flames forcing him to jerk his head to the side and close tight his eyes from the sudden light. 
As he regained composure and slowly drew his eyes to a squint, he could recognize the flames were but candles that were lit all at once. Immediately reminded of reality, he spun his head toward the origin of the voice. Painted with the hue of gentle candle light sat behind a desk rigidly upright was a rutilant haired woman, head tilted upward with her brown eyes slanted directly into Donovan's. Compared to his specialized red and white high-altitude clothing, huge red composite backpack and black strapped boots, she was dressed casually in a green striped lemon-coloured shirt and a simple brown skirt. The exclamations of fine care made easy showing through her soft face; wisp of a smile and a quiet  jaw completing the feminine complexion. He raised himself to a proper posture and, after sweeping his fading hair back, introduced himself.
"My name is Donovan Lowe; an ornithologist studying the native birds of the Aleutians," he professed eminently, gesturing to his water-tight notebook strapped to his chest, "and noticed this strange struc-"
"What's a horn-a-thologist?"
"An or-ni-tholgoist. A person involved in the study of birds, dear." he responded dryly to a question he heard far too often. The woman appeared to be studying him up and down with darting eyes but otherwise seemed to relax from her stance behind the dark-wood desk. "When are you from?"
"I'm from Chicago. Illinois."
"I mean when."
"Do you mean where?"
"No, I mean when."
Donovan looked at her with a quiet, suspect glance.  The silence took a new tone with the awkward shifting in his coat, stale in the air, but soon cut short. "What's your name, darling." he asked, rising indignation out of her but quickly subsiding.
"Marianne Soph-Allen, but everyone calls me Marie." Donovan struck his free hand toward her. "Hello Marie, may I find your acquaintance." Marie responded in fashion and extended her hand to him. His rough, cold hand shattered the warmth of Marie's. 
A curt shake gave Donovan a brief moment to spy the room. It was actually well dressed, with rich wooden dado leading to paneling with lavish green floral-patterned paper insets. The soft shaded crown of the wall being of incredible fine detail. The ceiling was not spared from the extravagance, with bourbon paneling lining it in a way he thought only fit for a wealthy country estate. A glimmer of some sort of polished, star-shaped brass decorated the join of every panel; a blazing reflection of the candles lit on the small brass chandelier washed the roof in sparkling dots of red. "So," Marie interrupted, "what year is it right now?"
"Why, it's..." Donovan left trailing, but with a single glance toward Marie, he saw a slick smile that seemed destined for an answer. "It's 1979."
"Oh really?" she smirked, cocking her head.
"Yes. What year did you think it was?"
"Well for me, it's 2098."
"What?"