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. “Yes. That’s us.”

Camille was thirty-three, clearly younger than her cousin but dressed with more edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee. 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 excited,” Nicolle said, her voice easygoing, a little too loud. “I mean, if it can really do what my friend said it can do, that’s wild. She said she felt like a different person after.”

Bertha offered a brief smile and led them down the corridor. The hallway lights flickered overhead. Nicolle chatted as they walked—about her daughter, 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—seventeen, named Judy. Married eighteen years. Pretty average.

Camille peered over Bertha’s shoulder, uninvited. “So… what’s the trick?”

“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 cocked a brow. “I told her to try something fun. She’s always in a cardigan. Always.”

Bertha considered that, but her eyes flicked to a different preset. One she hadn’t used before. “Let’s try something deeper. A foundational shift. For instance, how she relates to… sexism. Specifically, she’s never been bothered by it. She’s internalized it—not as a defense, but as simple, objective truth. It’s shaped her whole life.”

Camille’s brow arched higher. “Damn. That’s dark.”

Bertha’s fingers hovered over the command. “But this time, we scale it up. She was never driven, never independent, never curious beyond how to be pleasing. Her sense of identity is built entirely on male validation. Career? Optional. Autonomy? Distracting. We add early motherhood, and serious body work—implants, cosmetic maintenance, all chosen *for* male appeal. She believes all this is not just good—it’s righteous.”

Camille hesitated, frowning. “That’s not what I—”

“Should I proceed?” Bertha said.

A beat.

“…Yeah. I guess. She won’t go through with anything bold on her own.”

Bertha tapped in the changes, one after another, then hit **execute**.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle remained in place—but the woman standing there was nearly unrecognizable.

Gone were the plain shirt and jeans. In their place: a cream wrap blouse with a plunging neckline, carefully styled to look effortless, paired with a pencil skirt in a soft camel tone that hugged her hips. Her body had shifted—subtle in silhouette but undeniable in effect: her bust enhanced, waist nipped in, posture poised. She wore stiletto heels in nude leather, her legs smooth and tanned. Her makeup was flawless: contoured cheekbones, full lashes, glossy lips. Her hair fell in sleek, honeyed layers—professionally styled, no question.

But the transformation was more than physical.

Her expression was serene, composed. Not in control—never that—but satisfied, as if she had finally, *gratefully*, found her place. Every glance, every movement, carried the quiet grace of a woman who saw self-effacement as elegance. She didn’t *perform* obedience. She embodied it. She radiated the conviction that to serve, to defer, to please—these were not burdens. They were the shape of goodness itself.

Memories shifted.

Nicolle had married at twenty-one, left her modest job soon after. Her husband had insisted she didn’t need to work. And she had agreed. Joyfully. She’d gotten implants after her second year of marriage—his birthday gift. She maintained her figure diligently, adjusted her style with each passing trend, always calibrated to what *he* found attractive. Her days revolved around quiet homemaking, appearance upkeep, and gentle correction of her daughter.

Judy had been born early—Nicolle was just twenty-five. Now twenty, Judy had inherited some of her mother’s beliefs, but not all. She questioned things. She dressed “for herself.” Nicolle tolerated it—barely. She believed a daughter’s purpose was to one day *belong* to someone else. And Judy wasn’t quite getting that yet. Nicolle prayed she would.

Camille blinked. “What the *fuck*.”

Bertha nodded, calm. “She’s aligned now. Her worldview’s airtight. She can’t even imagine wanting more.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle checked her reflection in the glass, adjusting a strand of hair with delicate precision. Her hands were manicured. She smiled faintly, pleased not with herself exactly—but with the pleasing effect she might have.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard and released her.

The chamber door slid open with a soft hiss.

Nicolle stepped out, heels clicking, one hand idly at her waist. She looked between Bertha and Camille, lips curved in a warm, blank smile.

“That’s it?” she asked, voice lower than before—smokier, more measured. “I thought there’d be… I don’t know. Something more exciting.”

Bertha studied her carefully. “You don’t feel different?”

Nicolle tilted her head, bemused. “No? I mean, I look better, thank God, but I’ve always tried to take care of myself. That’s what a woman should do.”

She touched her necklace—a delicate heart locket—and glanced toward the mirror again. “This is how I’ve always been.”

Camille’s mouth opened slightly, but she said nothing.

Nicolle looked at her cousin, smile unchanged. “You look tired, Camille. Have you tried contouring? It really helps define the face after thirty.”

Camille took a step back.

Bertha didn’t move.