She had had an absolutely awful session at the gym. First there were no racks. It was unusually busy for a Sunday, (she figured there must not have been any good sports games on last night to keep people up and drinking), usually she escaped the wait by beating the hangover crowd. Then, after she had waited patiently for a bench (she had only told one doofus to take his selfies elsewhere) she was halfway through her second set when someone thought it was hilarious to stand just outside of her field of view and make piggy grunting noises.

She ignored it for as long as she could before she finally re-racked and sat up to tell the guy where he could shove it. Unfortunately the owner walked past right as she did so and she was asked to leave for the day to 'cool off'. The only tiny consolation she had was that dudebro got asked to leave too, and he wasn't even finished drinking his preworkout, so he must have been pretty city about that.

She took her time changing back into her street clothes. Purposely delaying long enough in the locker room that she was relatively confident he was gone.

And long enough that her face didn't look too blotchy from all the crying.

It was hard, and people here were mean, and she was doing her best and wasn't that the whole point of going to the gym in the first place?

It. Wasn’t. Fair.

She resolutely ignored the fact that her snotty snuffles were an echo of the insult.

Once she had stayed as long as anyone could possibly have used to shower and get gone unless they were getting really, really clean (and the showers in here didn't have doors, so she doubted that was going on) she gathered her gym-things, splashed some water on her face and strode out. Head high. Determinedly not making eye contact with any of the patrons or the owner. Not because she couldn't see them through tears which wobbled and made the world dance as she walked, but because she didn't want to see them. If she kicked her toe on the free weights it was because she was mad and wanted to take it out on an inanimate object, and not because she couldn't keep her head high enough to not be dripping -and- see the floor at the same time.

This sucked. Her frustration extended to the sidewalk, to the rows and rows of shopfronts and apartments. To the very world. She found herself stomping towards the rift. This whole stupid world stunk.

Was she the type to do an hour of paperwork to cross to an alternate dimension out of spite?

Yes. Yes she was.

It was a nice day on the other side of the rift, she would go for a walk instead. Walks didn't require special clothes, or waiting for racks to be available. She could do that in her cosy knitted sweater that came to her knees, tights and sensible boots all of which turned her into a cosy shape that resembled a person, but didn't give too much away about the silhouette. Plus this side, she decided, wouldn’t be full of jerks.

It was this determination to walk in peace which brought Morgan to the park on the 'other side'. It was a reflection of the park she knew well, but with little details changed here or there, like a floorplan drawn from memory of a place. She strolled resolutely one way down a path, made a turn like she knew where she was going (she didn't) and followed that path to its termination at a paved area. A series of food carts were arrayed along in a row and she found herself at the front of the line for one before you could say "churros" (or maybe she did inherently know).

She deserved this. She was a good person. Plus, chocolate made things better. It did nothing to stem the well of tears from looking at the cartoon pig on the side of the barbecue trailer though.

Keep holy the Sabbath. So said the Lord, and so Wick did. It was not a day for work, it was a day for worship, family, and the quiet contemplation of creation. Every Sunday Tristin woke at Oh five hundred hours, washed, and dressed for church. He then travelled from his apartment to his childhood home, to then drive his Ma and Pa to Mass. His siblings, such that still followed the good Lord's word, would meet them at the same Queens church they had been attending their whole lives.

After Mass they would have coffee and cake with the congregation. At approximately eleven they would depart and the family would reconvene back at his parents' home where they would cook and eat Sunday lunch together, even those that had lost their way with the Lord. It was the same Sunday routine he had been observing his whole life, and the only time the usually emotionally void SUPER agent was able to simply be human. He would regretfully depart after the meal was finished and dishes dealt with. His mother would never let him go without leftovers. Some day he wondered if she knew he was thirty. Certainly she did not treat him like it. Nor did she seem to realise any of her children were adults, though even David, the youngest, was twenty one.

So it was that Sunday too. Tristin hugged his siblings and father in farewell, hugged and kissed his Ma goodbye, then left carrying a Tupperware that while ostensibly his mother's, was only ever at his parents' house long enough for his Ma to refill it. It did not matter how much he protested that it was unnecessary. She would not hear it. The conversation always ended the same way, with it being pressed back into his hands, and Ma saying "Well it's all prepared for you now Tristin, and you don't want to waste your Ma's effort, do you?"

Sliding in to his car with his suit pants straining ever so slightly against his full stomach, Tristin set the leftovers into an insulated shopping bag with the provided ice block, then set that in the passenger foot well. His car quietly rumbled to life. With a smile and a wave he pulled into onto the road and set off. It felt like a park day. Sometimes, it was the zoo. Other times he would read his bible. That Sunday was a park Sunday.

It was a short enough drive, and uneventful by New York City standards. Finding parking was as challenge as always. That was part of living in the city. He did eventually find a spot in a parking complex. He changed from church shoes into loafers, then walked his way to the park. A few of the devilspawn sullied his mood, but he was soon surrounded by the carefully manicured gardens of the park, It was not the day for his Crusade. On the Sabbath, even God rested and observed his creation. So Wick would seek to forever live in the image he was created in.

He wandered a while, contemplating the plants, occasionally pausing to watch a dog, or a caterpillar, or the children playing pick-up baseball on a lawn. Eventually he found himself in a wide paved area scattered with food trucks. He did not buy things on the Sabbath. It was a shame, he did not have time on other days.

Walking through the crowd, near a churros shop, he saw a young woman clearly upset. She stood out in the environment of happy American families. It seemed wrong somehow, that he should walk away from someone the Lord had led him to. Christ would want him to help. He approached her, addressing her from a respectful distance, kindness in his tone. "Excuse me, ma'am, are you alright?"

Sniff, sniff, munch.

The chocolate was doing its job, working its way through her and soothing the hurts. She was taking Lupin’s wise advice: eat, you’ll feel better.

A man approached her, dressed in Sunday Best. Kindly and concerned. She perked up a bit, validated in her thinking that this side of the rift was nicer. He enquired if she was alright and she did a quick mental scan. With a resolute sniff she wiped her face with one of the napkins they had given her for any sticky fingers.

“I’m ok. Just thought I was old enough to not be bullied now.”

She smiled a watery smile. He was of a similar age to her, a little taller, dark haired and pleasantly spoken. In an instant she decided he was sweet.

“Thanks for checking. I’m Morgan.”

Somehow it seemed right to give him her full name and not the moniker she often went by. She stopped short of giving her last name as well, but only because it was a little weird to go full name first time.

He seemed sensible and put together, and she was a little embarrassed for being caught crying. At least she had changed out of her gym clothes into something a little more presentable. Not Sunday Best level, but better than workout tank and yoga pants.

That did not sound particularly okay to Tristin. It was certainly not a physical injury, however it was upsetting all the same. Certainly whoever had driven Morgan to tears was not living by the teachings of Christ. Tristin would pray for their deliverance back to his light. He hoped their repentance might bring Morgan some comfort, and that they would do the right thing and at least apologise. Unfortunately the Devil's influence was strong in their times.

"No problem at all Morgan. It would be remiss of me to simply walk by you without stopping to check." Tristin smiled, hoping it would make Morgan feel better. She certainly seemed as if she needed such cheering, even if she claimed to be alright. He felt she did not deserve the pain inflicted upon her. Perhaps if she had been of the devil's ilk he may have felt differently. She did not appear to be however. "I am glad you are alright, however none of us are too old to be bullied. It is unfortunate, but bullying is not something the victim can outgrow, because it is not their fault. It is the fault of the bully, and we must hope they find the error of their ways by the grace of God." It was usually at this first sign of a religious man that many would make their excuses. Perhaps today would be different.

"The name is Wick, Tristin Wick." He extended a hand to shake, though looking at Morgan he was not entirely sure the woman had enough hands of her own to reciprocate.

He spoken with a purpose, almost like English was maybe his second (third?) language. Like every word was chosen carefully to be correct given the situation. His tone was almost as formal as his attire.

The content of it was soothing though. He reassured her it wasn't her fault and with that the tight feeling in her face behind her eyes that was pushing the tears out eased somewhat. She took a slow, deep breath and felt it settle in her lungs. Everything was going to be ok. He invoked the grace of the higher power and she felt something like dejavu. Her mother had been religious. She knew there were photos of her baby self in long white robes getting splashed, but after her mother had... left... her father had more or less stopped taking her to the cathedral on the hill. They still went on the big holidays, Easter, Christmas Mass. But the weekly adherance was something they just didn't do. She guessed it was too painful for her father to visit regularly and have all the congregation wish him peace.

She thought there was probably a specific reply that she should have known, but all she could think of was 'and also with you' and she was fairly sure that wasn't the right one.

He offered hand and his full name. She scrunched the napkins and crammed them into her other fingers holding the end of the churro so she could extended her own.

Noone had taught her how to shake, so it was a movement based on observation only. She placed her hand, warm from the fried snack but clean, into his larger cool one and held it there. Limp fishes might spring to mind.

"I'm Morgan Barnes. Thanks for taking the time to stop, I appreciate that."

How long was she supposed to keep her hand out?

"Have you just come from church? or on your way there?"

She made the assumption, given his clothing, his casual dropping of God into the conversation and the fact that is was a Sunday.

"Wait, it is Sunday here isn't it?"

There were lots of little things that didn't quite match up with her side of the rift, it was entirely possible that the days were skewed a bit too.

Clearly Morgan had never been taught the art of the handshake. It was a skill unfortunately overlooked in the education of women, as it formed a crucial part of any introduction. He set his best example despite her limp wrist, and let go. At least her hand had not been sticky or moist. Perhaps she had simply never needed to before, though that seemed improbable given her apparent age. Rather it seemed to Tristin that any poor handshake must be overcome by her aptitude or interview skills, for job interviews were what most people honed handshakes for.

Tristin waited patiently as the series of questions bubbled out of Morgan, the last of which caught his attention. She was certainly a New Yorker, there was no mistaking the accent, so why would she be questioning the day? Perhaps she had recently flown back from abroad, but there was that odd portal. "As I said before, Ms Barnes, it is no trouble." Tristin smiled reassuringly, "And yes, it is Sunday, and I have come from church, by way of family lunch." His tone was not rude, but it did suggest that it was the proper way of things. Like the fact it was even in question was somehow regretful.

"What of yourself, Morgan? Have you recently returned from abroad? That can certainly make tracking time difficult. And do you attend Mass?" His voice was conversational and friendly, not at all as enquiring as his question might suggest. Honestly, he simply felt he owed it to this woman to take an interest in her life, and to make her day better. An American citizen, apparently human, and in distress, did not agree with his sense of the world, and he would hope any other good American would do the same for him or his family. Thus if he were to be a good Christian, he must be Morgan's good Samaritan.

His handshake was firm, and clear when it was completed. She retracted her hand without letting it linger too long. He had nice hands, she decided. To go right along with his nice clothes and his nice voice. All just a little too proper. All just what she needed right now.

He agreed that he had come from church and he didn’t say ‘duh’. He seemed like the type of person who may never have said ‘duh’ in his life. But it was a sentence which could have easily held a ‘duh’. He asked if she had been abroad and she realised that it was in regards to her question about the day.

“Um, not really abroad. I came through from the other New York.” Although, really, this was the other New York. That was just New York. Old New York? And this was New New York? It was all a little muddling really. She hoped he wouldn’t mind that she came through to his New York. She had followed the proper procedure (he seemed like the type for which that might be important). She had her little ticket stub to prove it.

He asked her about Mass and she felt the urge to lie, to say she went regularly, that she too had a family that observed all the sacrements. But, lying about church seemed wronger than normal lying, so she gave a sad shake of her head.

“Not as often as I should. I used to go a lot, when I was a kid. Before my Mom-”

She didn’t say ‘died’. She never said died. Died was too final. Even though her Mom had believed she was going to a better place she shouldn’t have gone. Morgan had never forgiven her for going. She had never forgiven herself for watching her go. For not being able to do enough. She was only four.


“-went away.” She finished somewhat lamely. She felt the pressure in her face again, but she ignored it.

“I’d like to go back someday. But maybe not to our old one.”

It was almost as bad as not going at all, changing to a different cathedral without moving. God forbid you get married somewhere else, or babies christened under a different denomination. But she could barely stand to see the people who used to know her mother looking at her and seeing her once or twice a year. The fact that the city was so large and the population turnaround so vast that hardly anyone would remember her was a thought that had never entered her mind. It was a thought that was almost worse, in a way. She would have been glad she didn’t think it, if she had known that she wasn’t thinking it. As it was she was concentrating on coaxing the tears welling in her eyes to go back in. She turned her attention to the churro and finished it as delicately as she could, making sure there was no mess left on her hands or face with the napkin before binning it in a conveniently un-obtrusive green trashcan.

“What are you doing with your afternoon? Anything you would recommend in this New York?”

From the other New York. Intriguing. He knew the governments had organised some process for tourism and cooperation. He had not the faintest clue how the finances worked, but he assumed both sides got something out of it. That was the only reason he could think of why that rift had not simply turned into another tense military border. That certainly explained the odd sense of time. Time had, in fact, been behaving oddly for a while before the rift. He could not say for after, he'd rather stopped noticing.

He was not given a chance to particularly respond to that revelation as Morgan continued. Hers was a common story. Many families had their religious anchor, and without that person stopped attending church to various degrees. Some fell completely from the faith. It was human to have a crisis of faith when one lost an important person to them. That was what he gathered from the rather awkward end to her sentence. It made sense. Not returning to her old church made less sense, but perhaps if it were so strongly attached to her mother's memory she could not face it. Then it would be better to attend a church, even if it were a different one.

"You are welcome to attend my church if you are in this New York, though I do not know your denomination. It is a Catholic church. I hope that is not a problem."[/b] He offered a smile, traces of humour within. He had rarely come across any denominational problems within the more traditional churches. The newer ones were a different story, but they seemed more to be extremists and cults than actual Christians. They certainly did not behave like Christians.

"As for things to do, I am afraid you may be speaking to the wrong person. My work leaves me little time or inclination for entertainment. I had planned to wander the park gardens and contemplate the beauty of creation. There is also a wonderful Zoo in Central Park. There are other things I'm sure most people enjoy more, of course, this is New York City. However I devote my Sundays to God. Today He has led my wandering feet to you, so if you wish to accompany me, or there is something you wish to do with company, I would not decline."

Of course there were some things he would be required to decline, however most people did not mistake him for the type to partake in those activities in the first place. Certainly not after speaking to him. He knew he came off stiff and pious even when not at work. That did not lend itself to making friends within his own generation. It suited him, he never felt like he had the time to maintain a friendship. Perhaps when he retired. Then people might hopefully have calmed from their youth.