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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 purple. 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 sheer black blouse, the outline of a crimson bralette visible beneath, paired with a sculpted vinyl miniskirt that barely hit mid-thigh—short enough to scandalize, long enough to stay in control. 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 crimson lace show through, and strutted into the lobby.
Her thigh-high boots—iridescent with a shifting, oil-slick sheen—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 we make her just a bit more… attention-grabbing.”
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 skintight, hot-pink blazer—one button barely holding it closed over an impossible push-up bra. Her leggings had vanished, replaced with a painted-on leopard-print pencil skirt, slit up the thigh. Her clogs? Gone. Instead, she now teetered on red-bottomed stilettos—glossy, five-inch, and meant for commanding a room.
Her nails were still long but now dagger-sharp and painted a glossy scarlet. Her earrings had grown—oversized gold hoops, one inscribed with BOSS, the other with QUEEN. A chunky, jewel-encrusted nameplate necklace rested above her cleavage, which was now… impossible to ignore.
Her makeup had sharpened dramatically. Her cheekbones were contoured to hell, her lashes so thick they practically cast shadows. Her lips? A pornographic shade of glossy cherry red, pursed into a knowing smirk. And her hair? Still platinum blonde, but in a razor-sharp, asymmetrical bob—business in the front, wild in the back.
But the real transformation? The attitude.
The moment the change settled, Nicolle straightened, rolling her shoulders back and planting one manicured hand on her hip.
She clicked her tongue, surveying the room like it owed her something. Then, she shot a look at Dennis—hardly assessing him like a co-equal husband.
“Okay, babe,” she purred, voice husky but sharp. “Are we done here? Because I have places to be and people to correct.”
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, or a single ounce of shame. Confidence through the roof. Sex appeal? A weapon. And trust me, she’s got opinions—and she’s not afraid to air them out.”
She winked. “Lucky you. Now can we change her again before she demands bottle service and demands to speak with 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 sheer black blouse, the outline of a crimson bralette visible beneath, paired with a sculpted vinyl miniskirt that barely hit mid-thigh—short enough to scandalize, long enough to stay in control. 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 crimson lace show through, and strutted into the lobby.
Her thigh-high boots—iridescent with a shifting, oil-slick sheen—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 we make her just a bit more… attention-grabbing.”
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 skintight, hot-pink blazer—one button barely holding it closed over an impossible push-up bra. Her leggings had vanished, replaced with a painted-on leopard-print pencil skirt, slit up the thigh. Her clogs? Gone. Instead, she now teetered on red-bottomed stilettos—glossy, five-inch, and meant for commanding a room.
Her nails were still long but now dagger-sharp and painted a glossy scarlet. Her earrings had grown—oversized gold hoops, one inscribed with BOSS, the other with QUEEN. A chunky, jewel-encrusted nameplate necklace rested above her cleavage, which was now… impossible to ignore.
Her makeup had sharpened dramatically. Her cheekbones were contoured to hell, her lashes so thick they practically cast shadows. Her lips? A pornographic shade of glossy cherry red, pursed into a knowing smirk. And her hair? Still platinum blonde, but in a razor-sharp, asymmetrical bob—business in the front, wild in the back.
But the real transformation? The attitude.
The moment the change settled, Nicolle straightened, rolling her shoulders back and planting one manicured hand on her hip.
She clicked her tongue, surveying the room like it owed her something. Then, she shot a look at Dennis—hardly assessing him like a co-equal husband.
“Okay, babe,” she purred, voice husky but sharp. “Are we done here? Because I have places to be and people to correct.”
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, or a single ounce of shame. Confidence through the roof. Sex appeal? A weapon. And trust me, she’s got opinions—and she’s not afraid to air them out.”
She winked. “Lucky you. Now can we change her again before she demands bottle service and demands to speak with corporate?”
Dennis stared at Nicolle, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something… but then closing again.
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