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Bertha Dreessen adjusted the cuffs of her tailored black blazer, studying her reflection in the smudged control panel. She smoothed a hand over her long, silver hair—clean, precise, effortlessly sleek as it cascaded down her back. At 52, she had long since perfected the art of presenting herself as *put together* without ever looking like she *tried*. A crisp white blouse, high-waisted trousers, and understated heels completed the look. Polished. Professional. A woman in control.
*The Changegrounds: Free Trial* was a far cry from the real thing. The high-end facility downtown had a waitlist and a clientele that understood discretion. Here? They gave away their first transformations like a mall kiosk offering free perfume samples. The machines—powered by proprietary crystal shards—could alter appearances, personalities, even entire pasts. Bertha didn’t need to understand *how* they worked. That wasn’t her job. She was here to *sell* transformation.
A sharp beep signaled the front door opening. She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and strode into the lobby. Her heels clicked against the linoleum, controlled, purposeful.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she said smoothly, glancing at her clipboard. Her gaze flicked up to the two young women standing before her.
“Denise Browning and Nicolle Carter, here for a free trial?”
Denise, a petite girl with faded pink hair and an oversized hoodie, nodded. “Yeah, we saw this place on Instagram. Thought it’d be cool.”
Nicolle, taller, with an effortless blonde ponytail and a beige knit set, smiled politely. “Yeah, we just wanted to check it out.” Her voice was calm, pleasant—nothing like the over-the-top energy Bertha had grown used to from the social media crowd.
Bertha nodded approvingly. *Much more tolerable than most.*
She led them down the hallway, their footsteps light on the tile. The facility wasn’t flashy—dim lighting, outdated screens—but it didn’t have to be. The *product* spoke for itself.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha directed them to separate chambers. The doors sealed shut with a quiet *hiss*.
Across the hall in the Command Room, she settled into the console, pulling up their profiles.
**Denise Browning, 20. College dropout. Works at a coffee shop. No strong career ambitions.**
**Nicolle Carter, 20. Organized, practical, but a little aimless. Floats between interests without committing.**
Bertha tapped a manicured nail against the console. *Let’s change that.*
She keyed in the transformations, adjusting not just their appearances but their *entire realities*. **Denise would become a suburban mother, wrapped in domestic routine. Nicolle, a career-focused professional, juggling work and family with the constant pull of responsibility.**
She pressed *execute*.
The chambers vibrated with a low hum, pulsing energy through the facility. Then—silence.
The doors slid open.
Denise stepped out first.
The youthful roundness of her face had softened into a fuller, lived-in look. Fine lines crept at the corners of her eyes—subtle, but unmistakable. Her once-pink hair was now a practical brown bob, neatly brushed but not particularly styled. Her body had thickened with age and years of motherhood, curves settling into a shape more familiar with routine grocery runs than late-night adventures. She wore a fitted cardigan over a simple blouse, the kind of outfit chosen for *comfort* rather than *statement*. A large purse rested on her shoulder—bulky enough to carry *everything* a mom might need at a moment’s notice.
She pressed a hand to her temple, exhaling. “God, sorry—I just had a weird moment.” She frowned slightly. “Did I forget to take the chicken out for dinner?”
Bertha fought the urge to smirk. *Perfect.*
Then Nicolle emerged.
Her hair, once long and easygoing, was now a sharp, low-maintenance buzz cut, exposing the shape of her face with almost brutal precision. The softness of youth had been replaced with the lean, angular features of a woman who had long since prioritized efficiency over vanity. A few faint lines lingered around her eyes, evidence of years spent balancing stress and success. She wore a crisp navy dress, fitted but functional, paired with heels that struck the floor with quiet authority. Her structured handbag was no accessory—it was *necessary*.
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her forehead. “I swear I had my planner with me. I need to check my schedule—tomorrow’s a mess. The regional office meeting, the quarterly reports, and I still need to go over payroll before the end of the week.” She glanced at Bertha, brows furrowing slightly. “Wait. Why am I here? I don’t remember scheduling this.”
Bertha’s smile was smooth, reassuring. “You must have needed a break.”
Denise sighed, adjusting her purse. “Yeah, I probably just spaced. Between school drop-offs, grocery runs, and keeping up with the PTA, I barely remember what day it is.”
Nicolle smirked, shaking her head. “Try managing a team and two kids under ten.”
Their words were casual, offhand—but to them, this was reality. They had *always* been mothers. Denise, the dedicated suburban mom juggling errands, school events, and family dinners. Nicolle, a working mother navigating the constant push and pull of career and home life.
They had no memory of being two 20-year-old girls who had walked in just minutes ago. No recollection of Instagram trends or impulsive adventures. That life had never existed for them.
Bertha folded her arms, watching them adjust.
Denise glanced at her phone, sighing. “I should go. I have to pick up Emily from ballet.”
Nicolle nodded, already texting. “Yeah, my sitter is expecting me soon.”
Their voices were different now—calmer, more assured. Less *youthful*.
As they walked down the hall, their footsteps steady, Bertha exhaled, satisfied.
Reality had already adjusted. Their families, their coworkers—**their entire lives had aligned to fit their new identities.**
Bertha turned back to the console, already pulling up the next clients.
This job might just hold her interest for a little while longer.
*The Changegrounds: Free Trial* was a far cry from the real thing. The high-end facility downtown had a waitlist and a clientele that understood discretion. Here? They gave away their first transformations like a mall kiosk offering free perfume samples. The machines—powered by proprietary crystal shards—could alter appearances, personalities, even entire pasts. Bertha didn’t need to understand *how* they worked. That wasn’t her job. She was here to *sell* transformation.
A sharp beep signaled the front door opening. She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and strode into the lobby. Her heels clicked against the linoleum, controlled, purposeful.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she said smoothly, glancing at her clipboard. Her gaze flicked up to the two young women standing before her.
“Denise Browning and Nicolle Carter, here for a free trial?”
Denise, a petite girl with faded pink hair and an oversized hoodie, nodded. “Yeah, we saw this place on Instagram. Thought it’d be cool.”
Nicolle, taller, with an effortless blonde ponytail and a beige knit set, smiled politely. “Yeah, we just wanted to check it out.” Her voice was calm, pleasant—nothing like the over-the-top energy Bertha had grown used to from the social media crowd.
Bertha nodded approvingly. *Much more tolerable than most.*
She led them down the hallway, their footsteps light on the tile. The facility wasn’t flashy—dim lighting, outdated screens—but it didn’t have to be. The *product* spoke for itself.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha directed them to separate chambers. The doors sealed shut with a quiet *hiss*.
Across the hall in the Command Room, she settled into the console, pulling up their profiles.
**Denise Browning, 20. College dropout. Works at a coffee shop. No strong career ambitions.**
**Nicolle Carter, 20. Organized, practical, but a little aimless. Floats between interests without committing.**
Bertha tapped a manicured nail against the console. *Let’s change that.*
She keyed in the transformations, adjusting not just their appearances but their *entire realities*. **Denise would become a suburban mother, wrapped in domestic routine. Nicolle, a career-focused professional, juggling work and family with the constant pull of responsibility.**
She pressed *execute*.
The chambers vibrated with a low hum, pulsing energy through the facility. Then—silence.
The doors slid open.
Denise stepped out first.
The youthful roundness of her face had softened into a fuller, lived-in look. Fine lines crept at the corners of her eyes—subtle, but unmistakable. Her once-pink hair was now a practical brown bob, neatly brushed but not particularly styled. Her body had thickened with age and years of motherhood, curves settling into a shape more familiar with routine grocery runs than late-night adventures. She wore a fitted cardigan over a simple blouse, the kind of outfit chosen for *comfort* rather than *statement*. A large purse rested on her shoulder—bulky enough to carry *everything* a mom might need at a moment’s notice.
She pressed a hand to her temple, exhaling. “God, sorry—I just had a weird moment.” She frowned slightly. “Did I forget to take the chicken out for dinner?”
Bertha fought the urge to smirk. *Perfect.*
Then Nicolle emerged.
Her hair, once long and easygoing, was now a sharp, low-maintenance buzz cut, exposing the shape of her face with almost brutal precision. The softness of youth had been replaced with the lean, angular features of a woman who had long since prioritized efficiency over vanity. A few faint lines lingered around her eyes, evidence of years spent balancing stress and success. She wore a crisp navy dress, fitted but functional, paired with heels that struck the floor with quiet authority. Her structured handbag was no accessory—it was *necessary*.
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her forehead. “I swear I had my planner with me. I need to check my schedule—tomorrow’s a mess. The regional office meeting, the quarterly reports, and I still need to go over payroll before the end of the week.” She glanced at Bertha, brows furrowing slightly. “Wait. Why am I here? I don’t remember scheduling this.”
Bertha’s smile was smooth, reassuring. “You must have needed a break.”
Denise sighed, adjusting her purse. “Yeah, I probably just spaced. Between school drop-offs, grocery runs, and keeping up with the PTA, I barely remember what day it is.”
Nicolle smirked, shaking her head. “Try managing a team and two kids under ten.”
Their words were casual, offhand—but to them, this was reality. They had *always* been mothers. Denise, the dedicated suburban mom juggling errands, school events, and family dinners. Nicolle, a working mother navigating the constant push and pull of career and home life.
They had no memory of being two 20-year-old girls who had walked in just minutes ago. No recollection of Instagram trends or impulsive adventures. That life had never existed for them.
Bertha folded her arms, watching them adjust.
Denise glanced at her phone, sighing. “I should go. I have to pick up Emily from ballet.”
Nicolle nodded, already texting. “Yeah, my sitter is expecting me soon.”
Their voices were different now—calmer, more assured. Less *youthful*.
As they walked down the hall, their footsteps steady, Bertha exhaled, satisfied.
Reality had already adjusted. Their families, their coworkers—**their entire lives had aligned to fit their new identities.**
Bertha turned back to the console, already pulling up the next clients.
This job might just hold her interest for a little while longer.
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