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Posted with permission from Jovian90:
Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting her auburn ponytail for the tenth time that morning. Long, sleek, and impossibly shiny, it cascaded down her back like molten copper. She smirked, tightening her company-issued lab coat around her slim waist and smoothing the charcoal-gray sheath dress underneath. The dress barely hit mid-thigh—just short enough to keep things interesting—but the coat was a total buzzkill. The higher-ups insisted on it for “professionalism.” Professionalism? Please. That was something women without legs for days, a face that could stop traffic, and hair straight out of a shampoo commercial had to worry about.
Eighteen for all of six months, Bertha had ditched high school the second it got boring. Landing a gig at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a dingy suburban offshoot of the real deal—was the best thing that ever happened to her. The real Changegrounds, a sleek, high-end facility downtown, charged a fortune for reality-warping transformations. Here? The first taste was free, a lure for future paying customers. The machines, powered by some weird crystal shards, could do anything—fix looks, rewrite personalities, even tweak memories. Not that Bertha understood how it worked. Science wasn’t her thing, but sales were. And if she could work the clients and the machine while looking good? That was all that mattered.
The sharp beep of the front door dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusted the lab coat just enough to tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her knee-high boots, scuffed but still sexy, clicked against the linoleum as she flashed her most inviting smile.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she purred. Clipboard in hand, she scanned the names. Her gaze flicked to the man first. “Dennis and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle, and possibly interested in membership?”
Dennis Taylor, a round, slow-moving man stuffed into a pink polo, grinned nervously. Not the type to drag his wife here out of quiet resentment—if anything, he seemed impervious to sex appeal. “Uh, yeah. A friend of my wife's was raving about this place, so we figured why not.”
Bertha barely listened, already turning to Nicolle. And wow. She had to fight the urge to gag.
Nicolle Taylor was a walking fashion disaster. A garish floral blouse clashed violently with leopard-print leggings that clung for dear life. Bangles jingled obnoxiously with every movement, and massive flamingo earrings swayed from her ears like wind chimes in a hurricane. Her talon-like nails gleamed neon purple, and her ash-blonde hair sat in a haphazard bun, stray strands sticking out like antennae. Worst of all? The clogs. Chunky, plastic, and a truly violent shade of lime green.
God, does she not own a mirror?
“This place is so cute!” Nicolle shrieked, her voice bouncing off the walls. “When my girlfriend told me about it, I was like, ‘Oh my gosh, babe, we have to check it out!’ You guys can do, like, anything, right?”
Bertha’s smile tightened as she guided them down the dim hallway. Nicolle chattered the whole way, her voice grating, her clogs clomping. Dennis trailed behind, sweating slightly. Bertha’s boots, at least, made a proper, authoritative click.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha shut the door with a satisfied hiss. Across the hall in the Command Room, she leaned against the outdated console, bringing the system online with a few taps. The real Changegrounds had fancy tablets. Here? They made do with relics. She glanced at Nicolle’s profile on the screen: 41 years old, in sales, mother to a 17-year-old daughter, Judy. Married to Dennis for 18 years. Divorced once. Blah, blah, blah.
Bertha smirked. Of course, Nicolle was a mom. Women like her always thought they were “quirky” when they were just embarrassing. Poor Judy.
Dennis shifted awkwardly. “So, uh… how does this work, exactly?”
Bertha, milking the moment, cleared her throat. “Simple. The chamber changes whatever you want. Looks, personality, memories—you name it.” She flashed a slow, practiced smile. “You’ve got ten changes as part of the trial. We can do them all at once or spread them out. What are you thinking for Nicolle?”
Dennis hesitated, eyes darting to his wife, who was absentmindedly fiddling with her flamingo earrings. “I mean… she’s beautiful the way she is…” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Bertha rolled her eyes—men were so predictable. “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… her outfit preferences? Maybe she totally hates wearing anything that allows her to move freely now. Super subtle.” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed execute.
The chamber shimmered. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, she looked… different.
Her floral blouse had morphed into a stiff, corset-like top, tightly laced and restricting every breath. The leopard-print leggings had transformed into a skintight pencil skirt, hobbling her stride. The bangles on her wrists had become snug, rigid cuffs, digging into her skin. The chunky clogs had reshaped into sky-high platform heels, their violent lime-green hue now accented with shimmering rhinestones. Even her flamingo earrings were heavier, oversized ornaments that tugged at her ears.
Memories rewrote themselves. She had always dressed this way—every day, for every occasion. It wasn’t just a preference; it was an obsession. Movement? Comfort? Those were foreign concepts. Her wardrobe was filled exclusively with restrictive clothing, from binding tops to constrictive skirts and impossible heels. Friends, family, coworkers—everyone knew. This was just Nicolle. Always had been.
Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She continued fiddling with her earrings, oblivious to the way she now took mincing, careful steps to keep from wobbling.
Dennis stared, wide-eyed. “She, uh, looks… different.”
Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She never wears anything that lets her move freely. And, technically, she never has. If you left now, the world would adjust too—friends, coworkers, and Judy included. You, of course, will remember the difference.” She winked. “Lucky you.”
Dennis stared at Nicolle, who, of course, was utterly unaware of what had just happened. His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something, but then closed again.
Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting her auburn ponytail for the tenth time that morning. Long, sleek, and impossibly shiny, it cascaded down her back like molten copper. She smirked, tightening her company-issued lab coat around her slim waist and smoothing the charcoal-gray sheath dress underneath. The dress barely hit mid-thigh—just short enough to keep things interesting—but the coat was a total buzzkill. The higher-ups insisted on it for “professionalism.” Professionalism? Please. That was something women without legs for days, a face that could stop traffic, and hair straight out of a shampoo commercial had to worry about.
Eighteen for all of six months, Bertha had ditched high school the second it got boring. Landing a gig at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a dingy suburban offshoot of the real deal—was the best thing that ever happened to her. The real Changegrounds, a sleek, high-end facility downtown, charged a fortune for reality-warping transformations. Here? The first taste was free, a lure for future paying customers. The machines, powered by some weird crystal shards, could do anything—fix looks, rewrite personalities, even tweak memories. Not that Bertha understood how it worked. Science wasn’t her thing, but sales were. And if she could work the clients and the machine while looking good? That was all that mattered.
The sharp beep of the front door dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusted the lab coat just enough to tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her knee-high boots, scuffed but still sexy, clicked against the linoleum as she flashed her most inviting smile.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she purred. Clipboard in hand, she scanned the names. Her gaze flicked to the man first. “Dennis and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle, and possibly interested in membership?”
Dennis Taylor, a round, slow-moving man stuffed into a pink polo, grinned nervously. Not the type to drag his wife here out of quiet resentment—if anything, he seemed impervious to sex appeal. “Uh, yeah. A friend of my wife's was raving about this place, so we figured why not.”
Bertha barely listened, already turning to Nicolle. And wow. She had to fight the urge to gag.
Nicolle Taylor was a walking fashion disaster. A garish floral blouse clashed violently with leopard-print leggings that clung for dear life. Bangles jingled obnoxiously with every movement, and massive flamingo earrings swayed from her ears like wind chimes in a hurricane. Her talon-like nails gleamed neon purple, and her ash-blonde hair sat in a haphazard bun, stray strands sticking out like antennae. Worst of all? The clogs. Chunky, plastic, and a truly violent shade of lime green.
God, does she not own a mirror?
“This place is so cute!” Nicolle shrieked, her voice bouncing off the walls. “When my girlfriend told me about it, I was like, ‘Oh my gosh, babe, we have to check it out!’ You guys can do, like, anything, right?”
Bertha’s smile tightened as she guided them down the dim hallway. Nicolle chattered the whole way, her voice grating, her clogs clomping. Dennis trailed behind, sweating slightly. Bertha’s boots, at least, made a proper, authoritative click.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha shut the door with a satisfied hiss. Across the hall in the Command Room, she leaned against the outdated console, bringing the system online with a few taps. The real Changegrounds had fancy tablets. Here? They made do with relics. She glanced at Nicolle’s profile on the screen: 41 years old, in sales, mother to a 17-year-old daughter, Judy. Married to Dennis for 18 years. Divorced once. Blah, blah, blah.
Bertha smirked. Of course, Nicolle was a mom. Women like her always thought they were “quirky” when they were just embarrassing. Poor Judy.
Dennis shifted awkwardly. “So, uh… how does this work, exactly?”
Bertha, milking the moment, cleared her throat. “Simple. The chamber changes whatever you want. Looks, personality, memories—you name it.” She flashed a slow, practiced smile. “You’ve got ten changes as part of the trial. We can do them all at once or spread them out. What are you thinking for Nicolle?”
Dennis hesitated, eyes darting to his wife, who was absentmindedly fiddling with her flamingo earrings. “I mean… she’s beautiful the way she is…” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Bertha rolled her eyes—men were so predictable. “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… her outfit preferences? Maybe she totally hates wearing anything that allows her to move freely now. Super subtle.” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed execute.
The chamber shimmered. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, she looked… different.
Her floral blouse had morphed into a stiff, corset-like top, tightly laced and restricting every breath. The leopard-print leggings had transformed into a skintight pencil skirt, hobbling her stride. The bangles on her wrists had become snug, rigid cuffs, digging into her skin. The chunky clogs had reshaped into sky-high platform heels, their violent lime-green hue now accented with shimmering rhinestones. Even her flamingo earrings were heavier, oversized ornaments that tugged at her ears.
Memories rewrote themselves. She had always dressed this way—every day, for every occasion. It wasn’t just a preference; it was an obsession. Movement? Comfort? Those were foreign concepts. Her wardrobe was filled exclusively with restrictive clothing, from binding tops to constrictive skirts and impossible heels. Friends, family, coworkers—everyone knew. This was just Nicolle. Always had been.
Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She continued fiddling with her earrings, oblivious to the way she now took mincing, careful steps to keep from wobbling.
Dennis stared, wide-eyed. “She, uh, looks… different.”
Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She never wears anything that lets her move freely. And, technically, she never has. If you left now, the world would adjust too—friends, coworkers, and Judy included. You, of course, will remember the difference.” She winked. “Lucky you.”
Dennis stared at Nicolle, who, of course, was utterly unaware of what had just happened. His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something, but then closed again.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!