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Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the polished surface of the control panel, pursing her glossy lips as she adjusted her platinum-blonde waves for the tenth time that morning. The cascading curls, a perfect balance between effortless and styled, framed her face like something off the cover of *Vogue*. She smirked, smoothing down the structured shoulders of her designer-inspired lab coat—an upgrade from the shapeless standard issue. Beneath it, her sleek jumpsuit hugged her figure, the deep emerald tone a deliberate contrast to the warm glow of her skin. The ensemble struck the perfect chord between authority and allure.
Eighteen for all of six months, Bertha had abandoned 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, an exclusive downtown facility, 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 the *science* of it. But selling fantasy? That, she understood.
The sharp beep of the front door dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusting the lab coat just enough to hint at the sculpted silhouette beneath, and strutted into the lobby. Her knee-high boots—custom, butter-soft leather—clicked against the linoleum with authority 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 pastel 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 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*.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha shut the door with a satisfied *hiss*. Across the hall in the Command Room, she leaned against the sleek console, bringing the system online with a few elegant 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… she’s the wife of a *famous* football player?” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed *execute*.
The machine groaned.
That was unusual. The usual tweaks—hair, style, attitude—went down smoothly. But *this*? This was heavier. Reality strained.
The chamber shimmered violently, static crackling through the air. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, she looked… different.
Her once-blotchy skin was now taut and artificially bronzed, the perfect spray tan covering every inch. Her features had shifted—not beautiful, but *almost* enough to be a trophy wife. Her body reshaped, teetering the delicate balance between curvaceous and surgically enhanced. Her outfit? A designer tracksuit—white with gold accents—and a diamond-studded watch, the kind meant to be seen. Her acrylics were now a tasteful nude, and her blonde hair was polished, extensions blending seamlessly into meticulously styled waves. The flamingo earrings were gone, replaced by delicate diamond studs.
But the biggest change? The weight of *status*. Nicolle was now the wife of a moderately well-known football player. Not *top-tier*—no, the machine could only *barely* push her across the line of plausibility—but enough. She had married him young, securing her spot in the world of private club luncheons, charity galas, and season tickets she only pretended to care about. The air around her shimmered with rewritten history.
But Dennis? Dennis was gone.
His very presence wavered, flickering like an image on a dying screen. Bertha barely spared him a glance as the machine corrected its paradox. Nicolle had never met him. Which meant they had never married. Which meant Judy, their daughter, had never been conceived.
Dennis gasped, a strangled sound that barely made it past his lips before—
Gone.
To Nicolle, nothing had changed. She smoothed a manicured hand down her designer sleeve, checked her diamond watch, and huffed. “Ugh, are we almost done here? I have lunch with the girls in an hour.”
Bertha crossed her arms, appraising the result. *Fascinating.* She hadn’t expected this one to fight back so much.
She smirked, glancing at the empty space where Dennis once stood.
“Looks like you’re all set, Mrs.…” She checked the screen. “*Hudson*.”
Nicolle scoffed. “Obviously.”
Bertha's smirk deepened.
This was *way* more fun than changing hair.
As Nicolle strutted out of the chamber, Bertha felt it instantly. A strange tug, like something deep inside her was being… unraveled.
She swayed, gripping the edge of the console. “What the—”
Her boots felt loose. No, bigger. The sleeves of her chic lab coat slipped past her hands, pooling around her fingers. The perfectly styled waves of her platinum hair tickled her shoulders, then her chin, then—
Panic gripped her. She was shrinking.
Bertha’s sharp, fashion-forward features softened, her high cheekbones rounding, her glossed lips thinning. The room loomed larger, her tailored jumpsuit morphing, loosening, sagging as her body regressed. She tried to move, to run—only to stumble as her legs became stubby, her balance unsteady.
Her voice cracked, rising in pitch. “Nicolle—”
But Nicolle wasn’t paying attention. She had paused mid-stride, her manicured hand resting on her abdomen, fingers splayed as if sensing something different.
A deep, contented sigh left her lips.
Her blonde waves darkened slightly, growing richer, fuller, settling into a warm, effortlessly styled look. The fine lines around her eyes softened, her skin glowing with renewed youth. She looked younger—mid-thirties now—but there was something else. Her sharp, trophy-wife glamour melted into a softer beauty, her face taking on a distinctly maternal air.
And her stomach…
The small swell of her belly expanded, rounding with undeniable fullness. A hand instinctively cradled the curve.
At the same time, Bertha—no longer a young woman, no longer a teenager, no longer even a child—felt herself pulled downward, inward. Her limbs curled against her, her vision darkening, her thoughts slipping away into a warm, rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump.
She had no name. No words. No memories.
Just warmth.
Just the steady pulse of a mother’s heartbeat.
Nicolle smoothed her hands over her belly, smiling softly as she turned toward the woman by the door.
Britney—tall, brunette, clad in the sleek, professional version of the Changegrounds uniform—offered a polite, practiced grin.
“Hey, Nic,” Britney said warmly, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe. “You ready for lunch, or are you just gonna stand there rubbing your belly all day?”
Nicolle blinked, then grinned. “Sorry. I don’t know why, but I feel… really good.” She laughed, a soft, motherly sound. “Maybe it’s the pregnancy glow.”
Britney chuckled. “Or the fact that you’ve always wanted another baby.” She tilted her head. “Seriously, you’re radiating full-on ‘earth mother’ energy right now.”
Nicolle rubbed slow circles over her stomach. “I guess I am.” Her voice was warm, affectionate, as if she were already speaking to the life inside her.
Britney smirked and pushed the door open wider. “Well, c’mon. Let’s grab a bite before you start knitting tiny sweaters or something.”
Nicolle took one last glance at the chamber, then shrugged. “Sure.”
As she walked away, she hummed softly, one hand never leaving the gentle swell of her unborn child.
Inside her, Bertha slept, drifting further and further into a new existence.
She would be born again.
And she would never remember.
Eighteen for all of six months, Bertha had abandoned 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, an exclusive downtown facility, 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 the *science* of it. But selling fantasy? That, she understood.
The sharp beep of the front door dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusting the lab coat just enough to hint at the sculpted silhouette beneath, and strutted into the lobby. Her knee-high boots—custom, butter-soft leather—clicked against the linoleum with authority 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 pastel 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 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*.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha shut the door with a satisfied *hiss*. Across the hall in the Command Room, she leaned against the sleek console, bringing the system online with a few elegant 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… she’s the wife of a *famous* football player?” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed *execute*.
The machine groaned.
That was unusual. The usual tweaks—hair, style, attitude—went down smoothly. But *this*? This was heavier. Reality strained.
The chamber shimmered violently, static crackling through the air. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, she looked… different.
Her once-blotchy skin was now taut and artificially bronzed, the perfect spray tan covering every inch. Her features had shifted—not beautiful, but *almost* enough to be a trophy wife. Her body reshaped, teetering the delicate balance between curvaceous and surgically enhanced. Her outfit? A designer tracksuit—white with gold accents—and a diamond-studded watch, the kind meant to be seen. Her acrylics were now a tasteful nude, and her blonde hair was polished, extensions blending seamlessly into meticulously styled waves. The flamingo earrings were gone, replaced by delicate diamond studs.
But the biggest change? The weight of *status*. Nicolle was now the wife of a moderately well-known football player. Not *top-tier*—no, the machine could only *barely* push her across the line of plausibility—but enough. She had married him young, securing her spot in the world of private club luncheons, charity galas, and season tickets she only pretended to care about. The air around her shimmered with rewritten history.
But Dennis? Dennis was gone.
His very presence wavered, flickering like an image on a dying screen. Bertha barely spared him a glance as the machine corrected its paradox. Nicolle had never met him. Which meant they had never married. Which meant Judy, their daughter, had never been conceived.
Dennis gasped, a strangled sound that barely made it past his lips before—
Gone.
To Nicolle, nothing had changed. She smoothed a manicured hand down her designer sleeve, checked her diamond watch, and huffed. “Ugh, are we almost done here? I have lunch with the girls in an hour.”
Bertha crossed her arms, appraising the result. *Fascinating.* She hadn’t expected this one to fight back so much.
She smirked, glancing at the empty space where Dennis once stood.
“Looks like you’re all set, Mrs.…” She checked the screen. “*Hudson*.”
Nicolle scoffed. “Obviously.”
Bertha's smirk deepened.
This was *way* more fun than changing hair.
As Nicolle strutted out of the chamber, Bertha felt it instantly. A strange tug, like something deep inside her was being… unraveled.
She swayed, gripping the edge of the console. “What the—”
Her boots felt loose. No, bigger. The sleeves of her chic lab coat slipped past her hands, pooling around her fingers. The perfectly styled waves of her platinum hair tickled her shoulders, then her chin, then—
Panic gripped her. She was shrinking.
Bertha’s sharp, fashion-forward features softened, her high cheekbones rounding, her glossed lips thinning. The room loomed larger, her tailored jumpsuit morphing, loosening, sagging as her body regressed. She tried to move, to run—only to stumble as her legs became stubby, her balance unsteady.
Her voice cracked, rising in pitch. “Nicolle—”
But Nicolle wasn’t paying attention. She had paused mid-stride, her manicured hand resting on her abdomen, fingers splayed as if sensing something different.
A deep, contented sigh left her lips.
Her blonde waves darkened slightly, growing richer, fuller, settling into a warm, effortlessly styled look. The fine lines around her eyes softened, her skin glowing with renewed youth. She looked younger—mid-thirties now—but there was something else. Her sharp, trophy-wife glamour melted into a softer beauty, her face taking on a distinctly maternal air.
And her stomach…
The small swell of her belly expanded, rounding with undeniable fullness. A hand instinctively cradled the curve.
At the same time, Bertha—no longer a young woman, no longer a teenager, no longer even a child—felt herself pulled downward, inward. Her limbs curled against her, her vision darkening, her thoughts slipping away into a warm, rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump.
She had no name. No words. No memories.
Just warmth.
Just the steady pulse of a mother’s heartbeat.
Nicolle smoothed her hands over her belly, smiling softly as she turned toward the woman by the door.
Britney—tall, brunette, clad in the sleek, professional version of the Changegrounds uniform—offered a polite, practiced grin.
“Hey, Nic,” Britney said warmly, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe. “You ready for lunch, or are you just gonna stand there rubbing your belly all day?”
Nicolle blinked, then grinned. “Sorry. I don’t know why, but I feel… really good.” She laughed, a soft, motherly sound. “Maybe it’s the pregnancy glow.”
Britney chuckled. “Or the fact that you’ve always wanted another baby.” She tilted her head. “Seriously, you’re radiating full-on ‘earth mother’ energy right now.”
Nicolle rubbed slow circles over her stomach. “I guess I am.” Her voice was warm, affectionate, as if she were already speaking to the life inside her.
Britney smirked and pushed the door open wider. “Well, c’mon. Let’s grab a bite before you start knitting tiny sweaters or something.”
Nicolle took one last glance at the chamber, then shrugged. “Sure.”
As she walked away, she hummed softly, one hand never leaving the gentle swell of her unborn child.
Inside her, Bertha slept, drifting further and further into a new existence.
She would be born again.
And she would never remember.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!