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Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the dulled metal of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was neat, tight, symmetrical—professional. She smoothed the sleeves of her lab coat, mandatory issue, but tailored to flatter. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into hunter-green slacks offered a suggestion of taste beyond the sterile. Her belt was a narrow blush patent leather, her flats toe-tipped in gold. A slim watch, gold studs, and clean nails completed the look. Nothing ostentatious—just the right tilt of polish. Just enough to say: I notice things.
At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She’d seen no use in finishing once she’d landed the job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a quiet satellite branch nestled between a dry cleaner and a vape shop. The flagship operation downtown gleamed with glass architecture and corporate prestige, but this location had its own rhythms. Quieter. Stranger. They offered free one-time alterations, a gateway drug to the deeper work. Reality editing, once science fiction, was now merely proprietary. Controlled. The shards—luminescent and pulsing faintly behind shielded panels—still creeped her out, but she didn’t need to understand them. She just had to make the results look good.
The chime rang.
Bertha stood, adjusted her sleeves, and moved into the waiting area.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said crisply, clipboard in hand. “Let me check… Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller of the two women nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille was in her thirties, dressed like she had opinions—dark lipstick, cropped wool jacket, graphic tee, leather crossbody. She eyed the bland lobby like she might write a thinkpiece about it later.
Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, modest in a pale blue blouse and slim black jeans. Her hair—blonde, shoulder-length—was clipped back, understated. A jangle came from her tote as she shifted her weight.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said brightly, voice just a touch too loud. “My friend said it completely changed her. Like, changed her life.”
Bertha offered a professional smile and gestured them down the corridor. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Nicolle talked—about her daughter, about the weird parking lot layout—while Camille stayed silent, boots tapping softly behind.
In the Alteration Room, Bertha had Nicolle step into the chamber and sealed the door. Across the hall, in the Command Room, she brought the interface to life. Nicolle’s profile flickered onto the monitor. Forty-one. Regional sales. One daughter—Judy, seventeen. Married eighteen years. Respectable. Solid. Predictable.
Camille leaned in over Bertha’s shoulder. Uninvited. “So, how does it work?”
“Ten free changes,” Bertha replied. “Anything from the surface to the interior. Style, demeanor, preferences. Even memories. When she steps out, what she’s changed into becomes reality. Unless you overwrite it.”
Camille smirked. “I told her to have fun. She plays it so safe.”
Bertha scanned the presets. Her eyes flicked. “Okay. Let’s try something… classic. Let’s give her Connecticut realness. Park Avenue restraint. A WASP MILF, let’s say.”
Camille raised a brow. “You can do that?”
Bertha had already tapped in the command.
The chamber pulsed.
When it cleared, Nicolle stood precisely where she had, but transformed. Her jeans and blouse were gone. In their place: an ivory cashmere sweater set, sleeves pushed neatly to the forearms, the crew neck tucked just so into a high-waisted midi skirt in muted navy. Nude heels with a low, pointed toe—expensive and silent. Her hair was now a smooth, honey-blonde bob, gleaming, side-parted. Her makeup whispered wealth: tight-lined eyes, soft rose lips, impeccable skin. A single strand of pearls at the throat. A Cartier tank watch at her wrist. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a country club luncheon, post-tennis, pre-auction.
Even the way she stood had altered—shoulders back, chin level, gaze cool but polite. There was a stillness about her now. Unhurried. Assured. You didn’t rush someone like Nicolle Taylor; you waited your turn.
Bertha smiled faintly. “She summered on the Vineyard. She graduated from Colby. Volunteers at the museum board and says things like ‘let’s not get emotional about this’ at family dinners.”
Memories rethreaded themselves. Nicolle’s home now had inherited china, framed oil portraits, monogrammed towels. She drank a specific rosé, preferred driving in loafers, and corrected her daughter’s diction with a single raised eyebrow. PTA meetings didn’t scare her. She chaired them.
Camille let out a soft, stunned laugh. “She looks like she should sue someone named Trevor.”
Bertha clicked her pen. “She plays tennis on Thursdays. Calls her daughter ‘darling’ when she’s annoyed. Has never once raised her voice in public.”
Nicolle gave a small smile in the chamber. Not a grin—never that. Just a composed, appreciative lift of the lips. She folded her hands in front of her, perfectly at ease.
Bertha noted it down. “Nine changes left,” she said, calm and dry. “Shall we continue?”
At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She’d seen no use in finishing once she’d landed the job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a quiet satellite branch nestled between a dry cleaner and a vape shop. The flagship operation downtown gleamed with glass architecture and corporate prestige, but this location had its own rhythms. Quieter. Stranger. They offered free one-time alterations, a gateway drug to the deeper work. Reality editing, once science fiction, was now merely proprietary. Controlled. The shards—luminescent and pulsing faintly behind shielded panels—still creeped her out, but she didn’t need to understand them. She just had to make the results look good.
The chime rang.
Bertha stood, adjusted her sleeves, and moved into the waiting area.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said crisply, clipboard in hand. “Let me check… Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller of the two women nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille was in her thirties, dressed like she had opinions—dark lipstick, cropped wool jacket, graphic tee, leather crossbody. She eyed the bland lobby like she might write a thinkpiece about it later.
Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, modest in a pale blue blouse and slim black jeans. Her hair—blonde, shoulder-length—was clipped back, understated. A jangle came from her tote as she shifted her weight.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said brightly, voice just a touch too loud. “My friend said it completely changed her. Like, changed her life.”
Bertha offered a professional smile and gestured them down the corridor. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Nicolle talked—about her daughter, about the weird parking lot layout—while Camille stayed silent, boots tapping softly behind.
In the Alteration Room, Bertha had Nicolle step into the chamber and sealed the door. Across the hall, in the Command Room, she brought the interface to life. Nicolle’s profile flickered onto the monitor. Forty-one. Regional sales. One daughter—Judy, seventeen. Married eighteen years. Respectable. Solid. Predictable.
Camille leaned in over Bertha’s shoulder. Uninvited. “So, how does it work?”
“Ten free changes,” Bertha replied. “Anything from the surface to the interior. Style, demeanor, preferences. Even memories. When she steps out, what she’s changed into becomes reality. Unless you overwrite it.”
Camille smirked. “I told her to have fun. She plays it so safe.”
Bertha scanned the presets. Her eyes flicked. “Okay. Let’s try something… classic. Let’s give her Connecticut realness. Park Avenue restraint. A WASP MILF, let’s say.”
Camille raised a brow. “You can do that?”
Bertha had already tapped in the command.
The chamber pulsed.
When it cleared, Nicolle stood precisely where she had, but transformed. Her jeans and blouse were gone. In their place: an ivory cashmere sweater set, sleeves pushed neatly to the forearms, the crew neck tucked just so into a high-waisted midi skirt in muted navy. Nude heels with a low, pointed toe—expensive and silent. Her hair was now a smooth, honey-blonde bob, gleaming, side-parted. Her makeup whispered wealth: tight-lined eyes, soft rose lips, impeccable skin. A single strand of pearls at the throat. A Cartier tank watch at her wrist. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a country club luncheon, post-tennis, pre-auction.
Even the way she stood had altered—shoulders back, chin level, gaze cool but polite. There was a stillness about her now. Unhurried. Assured. You didn’t rush someone like Nicolle Taylor; you waited your turn.
Bertha smiled faintly. “She summered on the Vineyard. She graduated from Colby. Volunteers at the museum board and says things like ‘let’s not get emotional about this’ at family dinners.”
Memories rethreaded themselves. Nicolle’s home now had inherited china, framed oil portraits, monogrammed towels. She drank a specific rosé, preferred driving in loafers, and corrected her daughter’s diction with a single raised eyebrow. PTA meetings didn’t scare her. She chaired them.
Camille let out a soft, stunned laugh. “She looks like she should sue someone named Trevor.”
Bertha clicked her pen. “She plays tennis on Thursdays. Calls her daughter ‘darling’ when she’s annoyed. Has never once raised her voice in public.”
Nicolle gave a small smile in the chamber. Not a grin—never that. Just a composed, appreciative lift of the lips. She folded her hands in front of her, perfectly at ease.
Bertha noted it down. “Nine changes left,” she said, calm and dry. “Shall we continue?”
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