The machine stops moving. (dead path)

You tentatively open your eyes and step out of the time machine, not even sure if anything has actually happened.

...Well, you're definitely not in the spare room anymore. Instead, you're in what appears to be an airport. Not even a futuristic one, either - it looks just like any other airport, complete with a pretty uniformed lady standing behind a desk with a smile plastered on her face. Oddly enough, her uniform looks pretty much the same as anything you'd see in [CURRENT YEAR]. Well, maybe it shows more cleavage than would be considered professional, but you're trying really, REALLY hard not to look at her chest. Gotta make a good impression, you know? Instead, you look at her hair - a shoulder-length bright green mullet with purple bangs - which would probably get her fired from most places in [CURRENT YEAR], save for maybe like a piercing or tattoo shop.

Probably realising you're too dumbfounded to say anything, the woman opens her mouth to speak.

"Hello? Are you all right?" She asks patiently.

"Uh...Um, yes, I think. I'm just a bit lost at the moment. Where, exactly, am I?"

"I think a better question would be 'when am I?'" She smiles slightly at her own little joke. "You're in the year 2XXX. To answer your first question, you're in the Twenty-first Century Time Travel Gate." She makes jazz hands as she says the name of the place in a show of mock-enthusiasm for her workplace.

"I'm sorry? Time travel?"

She nods.

"Ever since time travel was invented, people have been using it to escape their shitty time periods. It's not that common an occurrence, mainly because it takes a lot of skill..." She pauses, looking over at your time machine, which is almost entirely devoid of good craftsmanship and must have gotten pretty banged up during your trip because it looks even worse than it did before. "-but I suppose it's common enough that apparently we need twenty-something buildings to deal with it. In my opinion, though, I think these were built because, well, architects can get pretty geeky about historical buildings."

It sounds like she was just waiting to foist that theory on someone. At least it explains the familiar-looking décor.

"...I guess I'd better help you find your way around, huh?"

"That would be nice." You reply.

"Before that though, you're going to need to A) Remove your clothes and pop into that decontamination chamber, and B) Fill out a form so we know what you'll need if you plan on staying here long-term."

Both you and her look back at your sweet ride.

"I would suggest staying. I don't think that thing's going to survive a return trip." She says. You smile sheepishly, knowing she's probably right.

"I don't even know how I got it to work in the first place. Will I, uh, get my clothes back?"

"After they're done being thoroughly cleaned, yes."

"Do I...get anything else to wear?" You ask. For some reason, she seems surprised by this.

"I mean, I guess so. It's rather warm out, so people don't always bother with clothes."

Now it's your turn to look surprised.

"You mean, people just walk around naked?"

"Well...yes, some do. We've all seen at least one naked person before, haven't we? I doubt anyone will take much notice." She must notice the worried look on your face, because she starts speaking again. "If it really bothers you that much, though, I could take you into the back room and lend you a spare uniform."

"Yeah, that'd be good, thanks. I, uh, don't think I got your name, by the way?"

"It's Heather," She says, gesturing to to the nametag on the chest of her coat. Directly underneath her name, it says 'She/Her', which you assume must be her pronouns. Huh. Cool. "What's yours, by the way? And your pronouns, if you don't mind."

You tell Heather your name and that your pronouns are He/Him.