Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the control panel’s dull chrome, dabbing at a smudge near her cheek with the edge of her sleeve. Her ponytail—tight, auburn, no-nonsense—held firm. She gave it one final tug, then smoothed the sleeves of her lab coat. Mandatory attire, but she wore it with flair: beneath it, a cream blouse was tucked into high-waisted green slacks, a blush-pink belt drawing a neat line at her waist. Her flats caught the light faintly at the toe—gold-tipped. Stud earrings, slim watch. Nothing extravagant, but everything chosen. She dressed like someone curating the illusion of formality, one accessory away from rebellion.

At eighteen, Bertha had skipped the end of high school. No graduation, no ceremony. Instead, she’d walked straight into a job at *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*, a quiet outpost in a nondescript strip mall sandwiched between a vape shop and a dry cleaner. The flagship branch downtown was all glass and marketing. This one had linoleum floors and a flickering sign. But the work was the same. Ten changes, free of charge. A taste of transformation.

Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it still felt arcane—driven by odd, pulsating crystals locked behind thick glass, humming with unreadable energy.

Bertha didn’t need to understand the science. She just had to make it sell.

The chime above the front door rang once, flat and mechanical. She rose, straightened her coat, and stepped into the reception area.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”

The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”

Camille Potts, thirty-three, exuded curated defiance: dark lipstick, short wool jacket, slouchy crossbody bag. She gave the room a once-over, like she was scanning for microphones. Nicolle, older by a decade, looked plainer—button-down blouse in periwinkle, black jeans, sensible shoes. Her blonde hair was clipped back, her face open, the kind of woman who spoke to cashiers like they were old friends. A tote bag hung from her shoulder, something rattling quietly inside with every step.

“I’m really curious about this,” Nicolle said, a little louder than necessary. “My coworker came here last week. Said she felt like a completely new person. And I thought—well—why not?”

Bertha gave a practiced, reassuring smile. “We’ll take care of you.”

She led them down the corridor. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed and hiccuped. Nicolle filled the silence with small talk about her daughter, about how the dry cleaner next door always smelled like burnt lemons. Camille trailed behind, arms crossed, her boots tapping rhythmically on the tile.

Inside the Alteration Room, Nicolle stepped into the glass chamber without hesitation. Bertha closed the door behind her and moved across the hall into the Command Room, where banks of monitors blinked and stirred to life.

Nicolle’s file loaded. Forty-one. Sales associate. One daughter—Judy, seventeen. Married, eighteen years. Middle of the bell curve in every way.

Camille leaned in beside Bertha, uninvited. “So, what are we working with?”

Bertha scrolled through presets. “Ten free edits. Anything from appearance to memory to personality. Once she steps out, the changes lock unless overwritten.”

Camille snorted. “She said she wanted something *meaningful*. I told her to do something weird. She's always so—” She waved vaguely. “Literal. Practical. PTA and Pinterest boards.”

Bertha’s eyes lit on an option and she smiled. “How about this,” she said. “Let’s make her a medievalist.”

Camille blinked. “Like, castles and swords medievalist?”

Bertha shrugged, already tapping at the console. “A scholar. Fluent in Latin. Quotes *Beowulf* at dinner parties. Teaches medieval lit at a small liberal arts college and lives for rare book fairs.”

A beat. Camille laughed. “Do it.”

Bertha hit execute.

The chamber shimmered. The light within shifted—cooler, quieter—and when it cleared, Nicolle stood still, transformed not in glitter or glamor, but in tone. Her blouse and jeans had vanished, replaced by a long plum-colored skirt, flowing and slightly faded, paired with a dark green knit cardigan buttoned high, a leather satchel hanging from one shoulder. Her hair was pinned into a tidy chignon, a few strands loose at the temples. Wire-frame glasses now perched on her nose. She held a slim, clothbound book open in one hand, thumb tucked into the spine.

She was muttering Old English under her breath.

Bertha cocked her head, pleased. “She lectures on Chaucer every fall. Has an annotated copy of *Le Morte d’Arthur* she once rescued from a flood. Wears linen on principle and thinks modern syntax is decadent.”

Memories curled into place. Nicolle had earned her PhD at thirty-five, always wearing thick cardigans and thrifted skirts. She kept bees, drank mead from a clay mug, and taught her daughter how to play the lyre “for historical context.” She hosted solstice dinners. She once gave a TEDx talk on marginalia.

Camille gawked. “She looks like she’d assign a twenty-page paper on the symbolism of ravens.”

“She would,” Bertha said lightly.

Inside the chamber, Nicolle turned a slow circle, her expression calm, composed, faintly bemused. She looked up at the ceiling and smiled, a quiet flicker of joy passing across her face—as if recognizing a place she’d only dreamed of.

Bertha clicked her pen once. “Nine changes left,” she said. “Shall we continue?”