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Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting her asymmetrical aubergine ponytail for the tenth time that morning. One side was cropped close to her scalp in an edgy undercut, while the rest cascaded down in a sleek, impossibly shiny waterfall of deep violet. A contrast—sharp and smooth, dangerous and inviting. Just like her.
She smirked, cinching her company-issued lab coat at the waist with a wide patent leather belt. Underneath, she wore a structured white bustier over a sheer black turtleneck and tailored high-waisted slacks, the fabric hugging her curves just enough to keep things interesting. The higher-ups insisted on lab coats for “professionalism.” Professionalism? Please. That was for people who didn’t know how to weaponize aesthetics.
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 this good? That was all that mattered.
The sharp beep of the front door dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusted her lab coat to let a sliver of white satin show through, and strutted into the lobby.
Her sleek ankle boots—matte black with a sculptural gold heel—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 hideous 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 sandy 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.
Once Nicolle was 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. That meant she had to be unpredictable. And she already had an idea in mind.
“Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… she never took any crap from anyone? Like a total Karen. And maybe she looks a little… put-together.”
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 transformed into a pristine white blazer, fitted and sharp. The leggings had vanished, replaced with tailored navy slacks, perfectly pressed. Her chunky clogs were gone—replaced with sensible yet undeniably expensive nude heels, the kind that clicked with purpose.
Her nails had shifted to a polished French tip—long, but tasteful. Her earrings had shrunk into simple pearl studs, and a delicate but obviously real diamond tennis bracelet now rested on her wrist. A structured leather tote appeared on her arm, monogrammed, of course.
Her makeup had sharpened dramatically. The glitter and neon were gone, replaced with a flawless matte foundation, just enough blush to seem authoritative yet youthful, and a deep, commanding red lip. Her hair? A sleek, severe platinum bob, angled sharply at her jawline.
But the real transformation? The attitude.
The moment the change settled, Nicolle squared her shoulders, pursed her lips, and crossed her arms in a way that suggested she was in charge now.
Her gaze swept over Bertha, then Dennis, then the room itself, assessing and—inevitably—finding everything lacking.
She took a slow breath, nostrils flaring slightly.
“Okay,” she said, voice clipped, dripping with exasperation. “How long is this going to take? Because I do have a schedule, and I cannot be wasting my entire day waiting around.”
Dennis’s face paled. “Oh… wow.”
Bertha, ignoring Nicolle, barely hid her grin.
“Meet your new and improved wife,” she said smoothly. “And yeah, she’s always been like this. Reality’s adjusted. She’s never had any tolerance for incompetence, inefficiency, or, you know, rules that don’t apply to her.”
She winked. “Lucky you. Now can we change her again before she asks to speak to corporate?”
Dennis stared at Nicolle, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something… but then closing again.
She smirked, cinching her company-issued lab coat at the waist with a wide patent leather belt. Underneath, she wore a structured white bustier over a sheer black turtleneck and tailored high-waisted slacks, the fabric hugging her curves just enough to keep things interesting. The higher-ups insisted on lab coats for “professionalism.” Professionalism? Please. That was for people who didn’t know how to weaponize aesthetics.
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 this good? That was all that mattered.
The sharp beep of the front door dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusted her lab coat to let a sliver of white satin show through, and strutted into the lobby.
Her sleek ankle boots—matte black with a sculptural gold heel—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 hideous 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 sandy 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.
Once Nicolle was 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. That meant she had to be unpredictable. And she already had an idea in mind.
“Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… she never took any crap from anyone? Like a total Karen. And maybe she looks a little… put-together.”
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 transformed into a pristine white blazer, fitted and sharp. The leggings had vanished, replaced with tailored navy slacks, perfectly pressed. Her chunky clogs were gone—replaced with sensible yet undeniably expensive nude heels, the kind that clicked with purpose.
Her nails had shifted to a polished French tip—long, but tasteful. Her earrings had shrunk into simple pearl studs, and a delicate but obviously real diamond tennis bracelet now rested on her wrist. A structured leather tote appeared on her arm, monogrammed, of course.
Her makeup had sharpened dramatically. The glitter and neon were gone, replaced with a flawless matte foundation, just enough blush to seem authoritative yet youthful, and a deep, commanding red lip. Her hair? A sleek, severe platinum bob, angled sharply at her jawline.
But the real transformation? The attitude.
The moment the change settled, Nicolle squared her shoulders, pursed her lips, and crossed her arms in a way that suggested she was in charge now.
Her gaze swept over Bertha, then Dennis, then the room itself, assessing and—inevitably—finding everything lacking.
She took a slow breath, nostrils flaring slightly.
“Okay,” she said, voice clipped, dripping with exasperation. “How long is this going to take? Because I do have a schedule, and I cannot be wasting my entire day waiting around.”
Dennis’s face paled. “Oh… wow.”
Bertha, ignoring Nicolle, barely hid her grin.
“Meet your new and improved wife,” she said smoothly. “And yeah, she’s always been like this. Reality’s adjusted. She’s never had any tolerance for incompetence, inefficiency, or, you know, rules that don’t apply to her.”
She winked. “Lucky you. Now can we change her again before she asks to speak to corporate?”
Dennis stared at Nicolle, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something… but then closing again.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!