Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was neat, pulled back tight, and she gave it a once-over before smoothing her sleeves. Her lab coat—mandatory—was clean and fitted well enough to suggest an eye for detail. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks played off subtle flair—her belt was a skinny blush patent leather, and her flats had a faint sheen, toe-tipped in gold. Gold stud earrings and a slim watch added polish. Not flashy, but considered. A whisper of fashionista threaded through her look, just enough to feel intentional.

At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She didn’t see the point in finishing when she’d already landed a job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a small, suburban branch of a much bigger operation downtown. The real Changegrounds was all glass walls and designer branding. This one was tucked into a forgettable strip mall next to a dry cleaner. But it worked. They offered free one-time alterations, the bait for customers who might return for something permanent. Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it was still mysterious—powered by odd-looking crystal shards sealed behind thick panels.

Bertha didn’t claim to understand how it all worked. She just had to make it sound appealing.

A chime rang from the front. She stood, adjusted her coat again, and stepped into the waiting room.

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

The taller of the two women gave a quick nod. “That’s us.”

Camille was twenty-three, lean and pretty in a sharp way, with a tired sort of cynicism that played well on her face. She wore dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee that read *SERVICE WITH A SMIRK*. Her nose ring caught the fluorescent light. She looked around the waiting room with faint amusement, as if half-expecting to find cameras hidden in the potted plants.

Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, modestly dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her hair was blonde, shoulder-length, pulled back with a clip. She wore minimal makeup. A tote bag hung from one shoulder, jangling slightly with every step.

“I’m curious,” Nicolle said, her voice friendly but measured. “I heard it’s… powerful. That it really works. I figured, why not?”

Bertha offered a brief smile and led them down the corridor. The hallway lights flickered overhead. Nicolle chatted as they walked—about her daughter Judy, seventeen, about how weird the strip mall parking lot was. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, her heeled boots clicking softly.

Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured for Nicolle to step inside the chamber and closed the door behind her. Across the hall, in the Command Room, she brought the system online. The monitors flickered to life. Nicolle’s profile loaded: forty-one, works in sales, one daughter—Judy. Married eighteen years. Widowed last fall. Pretty average.

Camille peered over Bertha’s shoulder, uninvited. “So… this thing can really rewrite someone?”

“Trial gives you ten free changes,” Bertha said. “You can use as many or as few as you like. Looks, personality, behavior, even memories. They all hold as long as she’s inside the chamber. Once she’s out, they become permanent unless overwritten.”

Camille tapped the screen lightly. “She’s so buttoned-up. All rules, all curfews, all judgment. I swear, my cousin Judy’s had more lectures than dinners.”

Bertha nodded, waiting.

Camille glanced at her, eyes glinting. “Can we make her… not like that? Not even close? I mean, let’s say she loosened up. A lot. The opposite of strict. Like, ridiculously chill.”

Bertha tilted her head. “You're asking for a shift in parental temperament?”

Camille smirked. “More than that. Let’s go full tilt. She’s been so tightly wound for years. Let’s see who she is when she lets go of *everything*.”

Bertha paused, then pulled up a preset cluster. “I have one here. Independent, high-confidence profile. Nontraditional values, sexually liberated, lives for pleasure. Works nights—entertainment-adjacent. Wants to be seen, known, touched. Prioritizes experience. Is that in the realm?”

Camille blinked, then gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Hell yes. Make it real.”

Bertha tapped in the command, then hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle remained in place—but the woman standing there bore little resemblance to the one who’d stepped in.

The pale shirt and jeans were gone, replaced by a black vinyl mini-dress that clung like poured ink. It zipped up the front, teeth gleaming, the neckline a soft V that dared the eye. Thigh-high boots in soft patent leather framed toned legs, and her makeup was unapologetic: smoked lids, lush lashes, deep red lips. Her hair had darkened by a few shades, thickened, now in tousled layers that brushed her shoulders like a challenge.

She stood with one hip cocked, one eyebrow raised, her smile slow and knowing.

Bertha watched the monitors adjust. Nicolle Taylor: Escort, self-employed, cash only. Known locally, discreetly. Has a small but loyal clientele. Her condo now smelled of incense and sandalwood. Judy didn’t have a curfew anymore—she had a “text me if you’re breathing” policy. Their conversations had grown unguarded, strange in their honesty. Nicolle had a standing hair appointment every Friday and never missed her Pilates class. She flirted with the baristas. She never wore the same lingerie twice.

Camille stared. “Oh my *God*.”

Bertha nodded, lips parted slightly. “She’s relaxed now. Fully. Believes in indulgence. Believes in saying yes.”

Nicolle laughed inside the chamber—light, throaty. She turned toward the mirrored wall, struck a pose, and winked at her own reflection.

Then she blew a kiss to no one in particular.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard. “Nine changes left,” she said, her voice even. “Want to keep going?”