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Sure, here's a rewritten version of the scene, where Barton’s change to Linda is focused solely on altering her clothing preferences — specifically, making her always wear sleeveless vests and short pencil skirts to work — while keeping the rest of the narrative style, tone, and structure consistent:
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The day-to-day operations of Build-A-Partner tended to be mind-numbingly boring, as Barton discovered in the days following their grand opening. Managing temperamental equipment and dodging calls from creditors had become a monotonous ritual, and the young scientist found himself longing for anything that might break the tedium. The only reprieve came from the occasional walk-in, though these were rare. So when their very first scheduled appointment finally appeared on the calendar, Barton was more than eager to impress. The business couldn’t keep bleeding money like this, and if he didn’t start building a stable clientele soon, he knew he’d be in trouble. Marketing had never been his strong suit, a fact which had been pointed out to him frequently of late.
John and Linda arrived just before noon, a quintessential middle-class suburban couple. They looked to be in their mid-40s, each showing signs of age in the form of a few grey hairs and softening figures, but they carried themselves with a quiet confidence. Though clearly no longer in their prime, neither was unattractive. Barton had already received their payment—$7500, upfront—for the “full treatment” on both of them. A good start, and one he hoped would lead to referrals.
“Our neighbors couldn’t stop raving about this place,” John said as Barton led the pair down the hallway toward the Testing Chamber. “We figured it was time to do something fun for ourselves.”
“John loves spoiling me,” Linda added with a fond smile, giving her husband a gentle slap on the arm.
“Anything for my favorite girl,” John said, stealing a quick kiss. “You want to go first?”
“Of course! Ladies first,” she laughed, stepping into the sterile white room as Barton held the door open.
Once the door sealed, Barton joined John in the adjacent Control Room, settling into the creaky swivel chair beside the aging console. He drew in a breath, preparing to launch into his usual spiel—quantum frameworks, alternate timelines, reality manipulation, yadda yadda—just to preempt the question every single client eventually asked:
“So… you can do anything?”
It came, as expected, before he had even begun typing. Barton smiled politely and gave a slight nod. He could practically recite the next ten minutes in his sleep, but the client always needed that moment of wonder. Behind the reinforced glass, Linda stood awkwardly in the center of the chamber, a little uncertain, a little amused.
John, meanwhile, looked pensive, his eyes drifting across the blinking CRT monitor. His gaze occasionally darted back to his wife, clearly mulling over possibilities.
“How about something simple to start?” Barton offered casually, his fingers already moving across the keyboard. “Let’s say… a wardrobe adjustment. Ever imagine Linda in something more, ah, office-chic?”
John raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say—just hypothetically—she always favored certain outfits for work. Something like, I don’t know…” Barton’s eyes twinkled slightly. “Sleeveless vests and short pencil skirts?”
There was a soft hum from the machinery as Barton keyed in the parameters. In the chamber, Linda seemed to blink, just once. And then subtle changes began to manifest.
Her outfit shifted as if by trick of the light—her sensible blouse melted away into a sleek, fitted vest that left her arms completely bare, collar open just enough to hint at shape without veering into overtly provocative. Her loose, nondescript slacks tightened, shortened, restructured. In less than a second they had become a slim, charcoal-gray pencil skirt, hugging her hips and ending several inches above the knee. Her shoes sharpened, heels rising slightly to match the formality of the rest.
Her posture adjusted subtly—shoulders straighter, one hand coming to rest lightly on her hip. Barton glanced at the diagnostics; her memories had aligned. To Linda, there was nothing unusual about her outfit—it was simply what she wore to the office. Always had. Every day for the last ten years. She favored the look for its clean, confident lines, and felt it struck the right balance between professional and flattering.
From Linda’s perspective, she hadn’t changed at all. She was still standing in the chamber, waiting patiently. Only now, she looked like she had just walked out of an upscale corporate boardroom.
John stared for a moment longer than was strictly polite.
Barton, experienced in reading these moments, gave his well-practiced reassuring nod.
“She’s not any different, of course,” he said. “Same Linda. She just… dresses like this now. Always has, actually, according to her memories. Pretty tasteful, right?”
“Yeah…” John exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I always did like her arms.”
“You’re not the only one,” Barton said with a light chuckle. “It’s amazing what a little wardrobe preference can do.”
John gave a nervous laugh and rested a hand on his stomach, self-conscious all of a sudden.
“Well… I suppose it’s my turn next.”
“You can head in whenever you're ready,” Barton said, fingers already moving to disengage the safety lock on the door.
John hesitated.
“Actually…” He looked back at his wife, thoughtful now, lips pressed into a line. “I think I’d like to change something else.”
---
The day-to-day operations of Build-A-Partner tended to be mind-numbingly boring, as Barton discovered in the days following their grand opening. Managing temperamental equipment and dodging calls from creditors had become a monotonous ritual, and the young scientist found himself longing for anything that might break the tedium. The only reprieve came from the occasional walk-in, though these were rare. So when their very first scheduled appointment finally appeared on the calendar, Barton was more than eager to impress. The business couldn’t keep bleeding money like this, and if he didn’t start building a stable clientele soon, he knew he’d be in trouble. Marketing had never been his strong suit, a fact which had been pointed out to him frequently of late.
John and Linda arrived just before noon, a quintessential middle-class suburban couple. They looked to be in their mid-40s, each showing signs of age in the form of a few grey hairs and softening figures, but they carried themselves with a quiet confidence. Though clearly no longer in their prime, neither was unattractive. Barton had already received their payment—$7500, upfront—for the “full treatment” on both of them. A good start, and one he hoped would lead to referrals.
“Our neighbors couldn’t stop raving about this place,” John said as Barton led the pair down the hallway toward the Testing Chamber. “We figured it was time to do something fun for ourselves.”
“John loves spoiling me,” Linda added with a fond smile, giving her husband a gentle slap on the arm.
“Anything for my favorite girl,” John said, stealing a quick kiss. “You want to go first?”
“Of course! Ladies first,” she laughed, stepping into the sterile white room as Barton held the door open.
Once the door sealed, Barton joined John in the adjacent Control Room, settling into the creaky swivel chair beside the aging console. He drew in a breath, preparing to launch into his usual spiel—quantum frameworks, alternate timelines, reality manipulation, yadda yadda—just to preempt the question every single client eventually asked:
“So… you can do anything?”
It came, as expected, before he had even begun typing. Barton smiled politely and gave a slight nod. He could practically recite the next ten minutes in his sleep, but the client always needed that moment of wonder. Behind the reinforced glass, Linda stood awkwardly in the center of the chamber, a little uncertain, a little amused.
John, meanwhile, looked pensive, his eyes drifting across the blinking CRT monitor. His gaze occasionally darted back to his wife, clearly mulling over possibilities.
“How about something simple to start?” Barton offered casually, his fingers already moving across the keyboard. “Let’s say… a wardrobe adjustment. Ever imagine Linda in something more, ah, office-chic?”
John raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say—just hypothetically—she always favored certain outfits for work. Something like, I don’t know…” Barton’s eyes twinkled slightly. “Sleeveless vests and short pencil skirts?”
There was a soft hum from the machinery as Barton keyed in the parameters. In the chamber, Linda seemed to blink, just once. And then subtle changes began to manifest.
Her outfit shifted as if by trick of the light—her sensible blouse melted away into a sleek, fitted vest that left her arms completely bare, collar open just enough to hint at shape without veering into overtly provocative. Her loose, nondescript slacks tightened, shortened, restructured. In less than a second they had become a slim, charcoal-gray pencil skirt, hugging her hips and ending several inches above the knee. Her shoes sharpened, heels rising slightly to match the formality of the rest.
Her posture adjusted subtly—shoulders straighter, one hand coming to rest lightly on her hip. Barton glanced at the diagnostics; her memories had aligned. To Linda, there was nothing unusual about her outfit—it was simply what she wore to the office. Always had. Every day for the last ten years. She favored the look for its clean, confident lines, and felt it struck the right balance between professional and flattering.
From Linda’s perspective, she hadn’t changed at all. She was still standing in the chamber, waiting patiently. Only now, she looked like she had just walked out of an upscale corporate boardroom.
John stared for a moment longer than was strictly polite.
Barton, experienced in reading these moments, gave his well-practiced reassuring nod.
“She’s not any different, of course,” he said. “Same Linda. She just… dresses like this now. Always has, actually, according to her memories. Pretty tasteful, right?”
“Yeah…” John exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I always did like her arms.”
“You’re not the only one,” Barton said with a light chuckle. “It’s amazing what a little wardrobe preference can do.”
John gave a nervous laugh and rested a hand on his stomach, self-conscious all of a sudden.
“Well… I suppose it’s my turn next.”
“You can head in whenever you're ready,” Barton said, fingers already moving to disengage the safety lock on the door.
John hesitated.
“Actually…” He looked back at his wife, thoughtful now, lips pressed into a line. “I think I’d like to change something else.”
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