Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the dulled glass of the control panel, tugging the tail of her auburn ponytail until it sat taut and precise. Her lab coat—an obligatory uniform—hung crisp and clean, fitted just so to hint at her precision. Underneath, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks struck a quiet note of intention. A blush-pink patent leather belt cinched her waist; her flats shimmered faintly, gold-tipped at the toes. Slim gold studs winked at her ears; a minimalist watch clung to her wrist. The effect was subtle but curated. A murmur of fashion-consciousness threaded through her appearance, quiet but deliberate.

At eighteen, Bertha had left high school behind with a shrug. No need to linger when she’d already secured her job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a modest offshoot of the flagship downtown. The real Changegrounds shimmered with glass and branding; this branch squatted in a washed-out strip mall beside a dry cleaner and a derelict vape shop. But it functioned. One complimentary reality edit dangled like bait, luring customers who might later pay for something deeper, more enduring. Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it still thrummed with allure—the machinery powered by strange, jagged crystal shards sealed beneath heavy glass.

Bertha didn’t need to understand the physics. She only had to make it sing.

A soft chime sounded from the front. She rose, adjusted her sleeves, and stepped into the waiting room.

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

The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”

Camille, thirty-three, dressed with downtown bite: oxblood lipstick, leather crossbody, cropped wool jacket over a slouchy band tee. Her gaze slid across the waiting room, coolly amused, as if half-suspecting the dusty ficus in the corner to sprout hidden cameras.

Bertha’s eyes shifted to Nicolle. Mid-forties, her look gentler: pale blue button-down, black jeans, shoulder-length blonde hair clipped back neatly. A canvas tote bag dangled from her shoulder, its contents clinking softly.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle chirped, voice bright, a touch too loud. “My friend said this place was wild. Said she felt like a whole new person after.”

Bertha smiled with practiced calm and beckoned them down the corridor. Fluorescent lights hummed and flickered overhead. Nicolle chattered breezily—about her daughter, about the confusing angles of the strip mall lot—while Camille followed, arms crossed, boots clicking sharp and measured.

In the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured Nicolle into the chamber and sealed the door behind her. Across the hall, in the Command Room, she powered up the system. Monitors sputtered to life; Nicolle’s profile slid into view: forty-one, sales rep, one daughter—Judy, seventeen. Married, eighteen years. Clean, simple data.

Camille drifted to Bertha’s side, peering uninvited over her shoulder. “So. What’s the game?”

“Trial gives her ten free alterations,” Bertha replied smoothly. “She can use as many or as few as she likes. Looks, behavior, memories, even personality. They all cement once she leaves the chamber.”

Camille tilted her head, mouth twitching. “Told her to loosen up. She lives in cardigans.”

Bertha scrolled through the preset library, her fingers pausing over an option. A smile ghosted across her lips. “Here’s a fun one. Citrus Queen. Full lemon print. Top to toe.”

Camille gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Lemons? All lemons? That’s so stupid. Do it.”

Bertha tapped in the command and hit execute.

The chamber shimmered, a pale gold ripple running from floor to ceiling.

When it cleared, Nicolle stood unchanged in posture but wholly remade. Her soft button-down and jeans had vanished, replaced by a vivid, lemon-yellow sundress plastered with bold, glossy fruit. Bright yellow lemons tumbled across the fabric in a riot of green leaves and white blossoms. A matching lemon-print scarf was tied in a crisp bow around her neck; her heels—towering espadrilles—were trimmed in the same citrus motif. Even her earrings were glassy lemon slices, dangling and bright. Her tote bag had transformed into a lemon-shaped purse, glossy and absurd. Her nails sparkled in a gradient of yellow and green; her lipstick shimmered in zesty chartreuse.

Her hair curled luxuriously, streaked now with soft golden hues like sunlight on rind. When she shifted her weight to one hip, the lemon-printed scarf flicked jauntily.

Bertha smiled faintly. “She’s always loved lemons. Whole kitchen’s themed around them. Keeps a lemon tree on her patio. Throws lemon-themed brunches. Bakes lemon bars religiously.”

The memories slipped into place as though they’d always been there. Nicolle’s wardrobe had always leaned citrus-bright. Her apron was embroidered with fruit; her phone case boasted smiling lemons. Judy had rolled her eyes for years at the lemon-scented candles that burned in every room.

Camille blinked, then barked a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

Bertha nodded, satisfied. “She’s vibrant now. Loves patterns. Loves pop.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle struck a breezy pose—one hand lifting her lemon purse in a playful half-wave, her lips parted in a sunny grin.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard. “Nine changes left,” she said, tone light, even. “Shall we continue?”