Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the sleek surface of the control panel, adjusting her auburn ponytail for the tenth time that morning. Long, sleek, and impossibly glossy, it cascaded down her back in a meticulously effortless style. She smirked, smoothing the structured lapels of her designer lab coat—form-fitting, custom-tailored, and far too chic for a place like this. The charcoal-gray sheath dress underneath, an understated yet immaculately cut piece, clung in all the right places and hit just above the knee—a tasteful but deliberate choice. Her knee-high leather boots, buttery soft and worth every cent, clicked against the linoleum as she turned.

Eighteen for all of six months, Bertha had ditched high school the second it lost its novelty. Now she worked at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a dingy, strip-mall knockoff of the real Changegrounds downtown. There, elite clients paid 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 mechanics. Science wasn’t her thing, but aesthetics? That was a language she spoke fluently.

A sharp beep at the front desk dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she strutted into the lobby, her presence an effortless command of attention.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she purred, clipboard in hand. 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 aesthetic 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 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… something in her lifestyle? Let’s say she married someone… a bit more notable.” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed execute.

The chamber hummed, then groaned.

Bertha arched a brow. That wasn’t normal. The machine’s dull whir intensified into a low, mechanical grind, the crystal shards within pulsing erratically. The console flickered as the system strained to accommodate the change. A transformation like this wasn’t simple—Nicolle Taylor had never, in a million years, been positioned to land a top-tier athlete. Reality had to bend to make it work, to pull together the flimsiest possible justification for how she, of all people, had married a football star.

The air shimmered. Nicolle froze. Then—shift.

When the glow faded, Nicolle looked… different.

Her entire body had adjusted—enough to make her barely passable as a woman who could have, under very specific circumstances, attracted a professional athlete. Her features had been subtly refined, her figure tweaked just enough to suggest she’d once been “cute” in an approachable, late-20s WAG kind of way. The flamingo earrings had vanished, replaced with understated diamond studs. Her blouse and leggings had merged into a sleek designer jumpsuit, accessorized with neutral Louboutins.

Her nails were still long, but now in a subdued almond shape, coated in a soft nude polish. Her hair, once a frizzy disaster, had settled into a conservative, slightly highlighted lob—exactly the kind of respectable but vaguely glamorous look a mid-tier football wife might cultivate. And her makeup? Just enough to look expensive, but not overdone.

But more than that—the console confirmed it: Dennis Taylor was a man she never met. Judy was never born.

Nicolle Taylor had never met Dennis, never worked in sales, never given birth. Instead, she had spent her twenties in the periphery of the sports world, hopping cities as her NFL husband (who she met in a club when they were teenagers) bounced between teams, enjoying a long but unproductive career. After he retired, the two settled down a bit with the millions he made from his playing days, content to live in a nice mansion.

And she had no idea anything had changed.

Nicolle smoothed her jumpsuit, flashing an effortless, Stepford-worthy smile. “So, do I, like, need to sign something?” she asked, voice now perfectly modulated with the kind of poised, artificial warmth perfected by trophy wives.

Dennis, standing there—no longer her husband in this new reality—stared at her, slack-jawed.

Bertha crossed her arms, suppressing a grin. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s all taken care of.”