Our TG Captionpage 3
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Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the scuffed surface of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was tight, tidy—like everything else about her. She smoothed her sleeves, then checked the line of her lab coat—mandatory issue, but she wore it with pride. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks showed quiet precision. A skinny blush belt and soft gold-tipped flats added just enough interest to suggest she noticed things. Cared. Her gold studs and slim silver watch gleamed faintly under the fluorescents.
At eighteen, Bertha had already left high school behind. No need to wait for a diploma when she’d landed a job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a neighborhood branch tucked between a dry cleaner and a failing vape shop. The real Changegrounds downtown had marble floors and mood lighting. This one smelled faintly of toner. But it worked. They offered free single-use transformations, the bait for something longer-lasting. Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it was still strange—anchored by luminous crystal shards sealed behind thick glass.
Bertha didn’t need to understand how it worked. She just had to sell it.
The chime rang. She stood, straightened her collar, and stepped into the waiting room.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille had a sharper look—cropped wool jacket, matte lipstick, a leather crossbody slung low. Her dark jeans had raw hems, and she wore a graphic tee with something vaguely political on it. She glanced around the waiting room like it might be a prank show set.
Bertha turned her attention to Nicolle. Mid-forties, maybe. Her vibe was comfortable: pale blue button-down, black jeans, modest clip in her blonde hair. No visible makeup. A large canvas tote knocked against her hip as she shifted.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, louder than needed. “My friend told me this changed her life. She said she felt like someone else—someone she liked.”
Bertha offered a polite smile and motioned them down the corridor. The lights flickered slightly overhead. Nicolle talked as they walked—about her daughter, about traffic, about how she hoped this wasn’t “too weird.” Camille stayed quiet, her arms folded, heels clicking.
In the Alteration Room, Bertha directed Nicolle to the chamber. Once she stepped inside, Bertha moved across the hall to the Command Room. Monitors came alive, casting a soft glow. Nicolle’s profile loaded: forty-one, works in sales, one teenage daughter, married. Pleasant, unremarkable.
Camille leaned over her shoulder without asking. “So how does it work?”
“Ten free changes,” Bertha replied. “They’ll stick if she leaves the chamber. Can be aesthetic, emotional, behavioral. Even memories, if you want.”
Camille’s mouth quirked. “She’s always been beige. Even in high school. I told her to do something *big.*”
Bertha paused, fingers hovering above the console. Then: “We could make her... a lot of woman.”
Camille laughed. “What does that even mean?”
Bertha smiled faintly. “Let’s find out.”
She keyed in the transformation. Confidence, charisma, sensuality, visual magnetism—dialed high, but not caricatured. Then she hit *execute.*
The chamber shimmered.
When it cleared, Nicolle remained standing, but nothing else about her was the same.
Her pale blouse and jeans were gone. In their place: a deep crimson wrap dress that hugged her curves and plunged just enough to suggest boldness, not desperation. Her hair—still blonde—was thicker, fuller, falling in polished waves to her shoulders. Her makeup was precise but lush: smoky eyes, sculpted cheekbones, a rich berry gloss on her lips.
Her posture had changed entirely. One leg cocked slightly, spine loose but poised, arms resting comfortably at her sides, fingers curved with intention. She gave a long, slow look around the chamber like she owned it—and knew she did.
Even through the monitor, her presence radiated. She was magnetic. Effortlessly aware of the space she took up, and unbothered by it.
“She’s confident,” Bertha murmured. “Knows she’s desirable. Commanding, but warm. People stop mid-sentence when she walks in.”
Camille blinked, visibly thrown. “Holy *shit.*”
Bertha clicked her pen. “She’s someone who turns ‘ma’am’ into a compliment.”
Memories reoriented. Nicolle had always been that woman—the one who gave off heat, who walked into the PTA meeting like it was a cocktail party. Perfumed, stylish, with a husky laugh and an eye for detail. Judy, her daughter, grew up watching her mother glide through rooms like she had practiced it. She hadn't. It came naturally.
In the chamber, Nicolle tilted her head slightly and gave a smile—slow, devastating, almost theatrical in its ease.
Bertha nodded, satisfied. “Nine changes left,” she said lightly, eyes on Camille. “Want to keep going?”
At eighteen, Bertha had already left high school behind. No need to wait for a diploma when she’d landed a job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a neighborhood branch tucked between a dry cleaner and a failing vape shop. The real Changegrounds downtown had marble floors and mood lighting. This one smelled faintly of toner. But it worked. They offered free single-use transformations, the bait for something longer-lasting. Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it was still strange—anchored by luminous crystal shards sealed behind thick glass.
Bertha didn’t need to understand how it worked. She just had to sell it.
The chime rang. She stood, straightened her collar, and stepped into the waiting room.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille had a sharper look—cropped wool jacket, matte lipstick, a leather crossbody slung low. Her dark jeans had raw hems, and she wore a graphic tee with something vaguely political on it. She glanced around the waiting room like it might be a prank show set.
Bertha turned her attention to Nicolle. Mid-forties, maybe. Her vibe was comfortable: pale blue button-down, black jeans, modest clip in her blonde hair. No visible makeup. A large canvas tote knocked against her hip as she shifted.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, louder than needed. “My friend told me this changed her life. She said she felt like someone else—someone she liked.”
Bertha offered a polite smile and motioned them down the corridor. The lights flickered slightly overhead. Nicolle talked as they walked—about her daughter, about traffic, about how she hoped this wasn’t “too weird.” Camille stayed quiet, her arms folded, heels clicking.
In the Alteration Room, Bertha directed Nicolle to the chamber. Once she stepped inside, Bertha moved across the hall to the Command Room. Monitors came alive, casting a soft glow. Nicolle’s profile loaded: forty-one, works in sales, one teenage daughter, married. Pleasant, unremarkable.
Camille leaned over her shoulder without asking. “So how does it work?”
“Ten free changes,” Bertha replied. “They’ll stick if she leaves the chamber. Can be aesthetic, emotional, behavioral. Even memories, if you want.”
Camille’s mouth quirked. “She’s always been beige. Even in high school. I told her to do something *big.*”
Bertha paused, fingers hovering above the console. Then: “We could make her... a lot of woman.”
Camille laughed. “What does that even mean?”
Bertha smiled faintly. “Let’s find out.”
She keyed in the transformation. Confidence, charisma, sensuality, visual magnetism—dialed high, but not caricatured. Then she hit *execute.*
The chamber shimmered.
When it cleared, Nicolle remained standing, but nothing else about her was the same.
Her pale blouse and jeans were gone. In their place: a deep crimson wrap dress that hugged her curves and plunged just enough to suggest boldness, not desperation. Her hair—still blonde—was thicker, fuller, falling in polished waves to her shoulders. Her makeup was precise but lush: smoky eyes, sculpted cheekbones, a rich berry gloss on her lips.
Her posture had changed entirely. One leg cocked slightly, spine loose but poised, arms resting comfortably at her sides, fingers curved with intention. She gave a long, slow look around the chamber like she owned it—and knew she did.
Even through the monitor, her presence radiated. She was magnetic. Effortlessly aware of the space she took up, and unbothered by it.
“She’s confident,” Bertha murmured. “Knows she’s desirable. Commanding, but warm. People stop mid-sentence when she walks in.”
Camille blinked, visibly thrown. “Holy *shit.*”
Bertha clicked her pen. “She’s someone who turns ‘ma’am’ into a compliment.”
Memories reoriented. Nicolle had always been that woman—the one who gave off heat, who walked into the PTA meeting like it was a cocktail party. Perfumed, stylish, with a husky laugh and an eye for detail. Judy, her daughter, grew up watching her mother glide through rooms like she had practiced it. She hadn't. It came naturally.
In the chamber, Nicolle tilted her head slightly and gave a smile—slow, devastating, almost theatrical in its ease.
Bertha nodded, satisfied. “Nine changes left,” she said lightly, eyes on Camille. “Want to keep going?”
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