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. “It’s subtle at first. But it rewrites everything. Identity, choices, even self-image. Should I proceed?”

Camille hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not? She always plays it safe. Let’s see what that does.”

Bertha tapped in the change, then hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle remained in place—but she had transformed.

Gone were the plain shirt and jeans. In their place: a snug, blush-pink knit dress, hugging her curves with unapologetic precision, hemline brushing her mid-thigh. The neckline dipped into a gentle scoop, tasteful yet deliberately flattering. Nude patent pumps elongated her legs, and her hair now gleamed in smooth waves, parted to the side in a practiced, face-framing sweep. Makeup emphasized softness: dewy foundation, rose-gold shimmer on her lids, glossed lips in a muted mauve.

But it was the way she carried herself that struck hardest.

Her posture was deferential without being timid. Head slightly tilted, a smile that hovered between polite and appeasing. Hands lightly clasped at her waist. Everything about her said *agreeable*. A woman trained by years of unchallenged assumptions—not coerced, but fully aligned with them. She believed, to her core, that being pleasing, non-confrontational, and quietly decorative was simply correct. Natural. As it should be.

Memories shifted.

Nicolle had never been one to question the remarks about her appearance at work. She’d laughed them off, not from discomfort, but genuine agreement. Compliments were validation. Male approval was a compass. She’d married young because it was practical, expected. Her career had plateaued early—not from glass ceilings, but from an intrinsic lack of drive to lead. Leadership was for others. She thrived in support roles, where her contributions could be quietly appreciated but never spotlighted.

Judy, her daughter, had grown up with a mother who gently discouraged ambition, who modeled pleasantness over assertiveness. Who smiled at every joke, even the ones at her expense. Who taught her to take up just enough space to be noticed—but never enough to be disruptive.

Camille blinked. “Holy shit.”

Bertha nodded, pleased. “She’s content now. At peace with the way things are. No friction.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle adjusted the hem of her dress and looked up with a soft, practiced smile, radiating an easy, unbothered charm. Not because she was hiding discomfort. But because, in her view, there was no discomfort to hide.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard as she released Nicolle.

The chamber door slid open with a soft hiss.

Nicolle stepped out, smoothing the front of her dress with a familiar gesture. She glanced between Bertha and Camille, her brow creased in mild confusion.

“That’s it?” she asked, voice light, lilting, just a little airy. “I thought something was supposed to happen.”

Bertha kept her clipboard steady. “You don’t feel different?”

Nicolle laughed—an easy, practiced sound. “No? I mean, I guess it’s nice that you have these fancy machines, but I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” She gave a little shrug, the kind that made her necklace catch the light. “I’ve always been like this.”

Camille’s mouth opened, then shut. She looked her cousin up and down, as if trying to reconcile this glossy, composed woman with the cardigan-wrapped complainer who’d walked in ten minutes ago. “Nicolle, you’re in a dress. And heels. *High* heels. You hate dresses.”

Nicolle tilted her head. “No, sweetie, I don’t *hate* dresses. I just don’t wear things that draw the wrong kind of attention. It’s important to be… appropriate.” She smiled warmly, eyes crinkling. “Besides, looking put-together is a sign of respect. For yourself, and for others.”

Camille’s expression darkened. “You used to call this stuff ‘objectification with a smile.’ Remember? You ranted about it at my birthday brunch.”

Nicolle’s eyes widened slightly, as if amused by a child’s misunderstanding. “That doesn’t sound like me, hon. I’m not one of those angry types. Life’s easier when you just go with the flow. People are the way they are.” She turned to Bertha, smiling with a demure tilt of her shoulders. “Isn’t that right?”

Bertha’s mouth curved into a professional, noncommittal smile. “Reality tends to agree with you now.”

Camille stared. “You’re not mad that guys at work treat you like arm candy? That Dad jokes about you being ‘the office mom’ while never promoting you?”

Nicolle’s face softened into something almost maternal. “Oh, Cammy. Men will be men. It’s just how things are. There’s no need to take it personally. Besides, isn’t it nice to be appreciated? I’m happy where I am.”

Camille took a sharp breath, visibly wrestling with the urge to argue. But Nicolle’s placid smile didn’t waver. She radiated a self-assured contentment that made confrontation feel… petty. Like shouting at a pink frosted cupcake.

“Wow,” Camille muttered. “This is… something.”

Bertha clicked her pen again, brisk. “You’ve got nine changes left. Want to keep going?”

Nicolle’s hand drifted to her hair, fingers tucking a wave behind her ear. “Oh, I don’t want to be a bother. I’m sure you have more exciting clients to help.” Her tone was gracious, but firm. Content. Completely unaware of how much she’d already shifted.

Camille rubbed a hand over her face. “This is freaky.”

Nicolle just smiled.

To her, everything was exactly as it should be.