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TCFT93
Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the glossy black surface of the control panel, tilting her head just enough to catch the way the light glinted off her platinum-frosted waves. Silken, impossibly smooth, they cascaded over one shoulder, framing her face like a campaign ad for effortless glamour. She smirked, smoothing the lapels of her company-issued lab coat, its stark white precision draped artfully over her shoulders rather than worn properly. Beneath it, a structured blazer dress�"belted, sculpted, and plunging just so�"hugged her figure in a way that balanced sophistication with just enough risk. The thigh-high boots? Lizard-print patent leather. Statement-making. Authority-affirming.
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 aesthetics were. And if she could work the clients and the machine while looking flawless? That was all that mattered.
The sharp beep of the front door interrupted her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusting her lab coat just enough to tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her boots struck the linoleum with a commanding click.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she purred, flipping her clipboard open. Her gaze flicked to the names. “Nicolle Greene and Denise Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle, and possibly interested in membership?”
Denise Taylor, a sleek, put-together 26-year-old in an impeccably tailored trouser set, straightened her posture. If she had been an animal, she’d be a greyhound�"tall, lean, always alert, her dark curls slicked into a braided bun. She wasn’t humorless, exactly, but she took herself very seriously.
“Yes,” Denise said crisply. “I booked this for Ms. Greene.” She shot a glance at her boss, who was fidgeting with a diamond bracelet.
Nicolle Greene barely nodded, scrolling through her phone. Vice President of Sales. Bertha didn’t even need to look at the profile to know it. She could smell the authority. Nicolle had that air�"sharpened, decisive, expensive. No nonsense. Even the garish elements of her personal style were streamlined. The leopard-print blouse? High-end silk, flawlessly tailored. The emerald-green stiletto pumps? Custom, no doubt. The flamingo earrings�"well�"even a Vice President had her indulgences.
“This place is so cute,” Nicolle finally said, slipping her phone into a crocodile clutch. Her voice had a slight rasp, the kind that came from years of commanding rooms and making men scramble for her approval. “I assume you can do anything?”
Bertha’s smile stayed fixed. “Anything.”
She led them down the dim hallway, Denise’s low-heeled boots tapping a metronome beside Bertha’s sultry click. Nicolle followed at her own pace, checking her reflection in the glass of a nearby display case as they entered the Alteration Room.
Inside, Bertha activated the outdated console, scanning Nicolle’s profile. 41 years old. A powerhouse in sales. Unmarried, no children. A career woman, in the aggressive sense. The kind of woman who steamrolled through boardrooms, left exes in her wake, and had no interest in being handled by anyone.
Bertha’s smirk deepened. That’s about to change.
Denise cleared her throat. “So, how does this work?”
Bertha leaned back against the console, crossing her legs. “Simple. The chamber changes whatever you want. Looks, personality, memories�"you name it.” She tapped her nails against the screen. “Ten changes for the trial. We can do them all at once or spread them out. What are you thinking for Ms. Greene?”
Denise hesitated. “I mean�"she’s brilliant the way she is.”
Bertha rolled her eyes. So predictable. “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… we tweak how she got to where she is? Nothing visual. Just a little… rewriting.”
Before Denise could react, she pressed execute.
The chamber shuddered. A low, groaning whir echoed through the room.
Denise jolted. “Is it supposed to sound like that?”
Bertha tilted her head, intrigued. The machine was struggling. Rewriting everything about Nicolle’s professional history wasn’t an easy lift.
Nicolle herself barely blinked as a ripple passed over her.
When it faded, everything was the same�"her stance, her outfit, her perfectly lacquered nails. But Bertha knew better.
The profile flickered.
Vice President of Sales, Nicolle Greene… rose to prominence under the explicit patronage of senior male executives. Every promotion, every deal, every corner office had been handed to her because of her ability to captivate and maneuver within male-dominated spaces. She never worked a room so much as she worked the men inside it. They had adored her, championed her, fought each other to push her higher. Her presence was an unspoken currency, her career built on implicit exchanges of attention, admiration, and exclusivity. She had always known how to make them want her success.
And she never questioned it. Because in this reality, that was simply how the world worked for her.
Bertha exhaled, pleased. Now, let’s see how the assistant handles this.
Denise’s eyes widened. She was staring at Nicolle�"really staring, like something was wrong.
Nicolle, utterly unaware of the seismic shift in her reality, flicked her hair over one shoulder. “So, how does this work, exactly?” she asked, as if she hadn’t already been through it.
Bertha grinned, slow and knowing. “Oh, we’re already working.”
Denise took a cautious step forward. She, of course, was unaffected. “Ms. Greene, do you…” She hesitated. “Do you feel different?”
Nicolle arched a brow. “No? Why would I?” She gave Denise an indulgent smile�"the kind of faintly condescending smile reserved for eager junior associates, for men who tripped over their words around her. “You’re sweet for asking, though.”
Denise swallowed. Something’s off.
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 aesthetics were. And if she could work the clients and the machine while looking flawless? That was all that mattered.
The sharp beep of the front door interrupted her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusting her lab coat just enough to tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her boots struck the linoleum with a commanding click.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she purred, flipping her clipboard open. Her gaze flicked to the names. “Nicolle Greene and Denise Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle, and possibly interested in membership?”
Denise Taylor, a sleek, put-together 26-year-old in an impeccably tailored trouser set, straightened her posture. If she had been an animal, she’d be a greyhound�"tall, lean, always alert, her dark curls slicked into a braided bun. She wasn’t humorless, exactly, but she took herself very seriously.
“Yes,” Denise said crisply. “I booked this for Ms. Greene.” She shot a glance at her boss, who was fidgeting with a diamond bracelet.
Nicolle Greene barely nodded, scrolling through her phone. Vice President of Sales. Bertha didn’t even need to look at the profile to know it. She could smell the authority. Nicolle had that air�"sharpened, decisive, expensive. No nonsense. Even the garish elements of her personal style were streamlined. The leopard-print blouse? High-end silk, flawlessly tailored. The emerald-green stiletto pumps? Custom, no doubt. The flamingo earrings�"well�"even a Vice President had her indulgences.
“This place is so cute,” Nicolle finally said, slipping her phone into a crocodile clutch. Her voice had a slight rasp, the kind that came from years of commanding rooms and making men scramble for her approval. “I assume you can do anything?”
Bertha’s smile stayed fixed. “Anything.”
She led them down the dim hallway, Denise’s low-heeled boots tapping a metronome beside Bertha’s sultry click. Nicolle followed at her own pace, checking her reflection in the glass of a nearby display case as they entered the Alteration Room.
Inside, Bertha activated the outdated console, scanning Nicolle’s profile. 41 years old. A powerhouse in sales. Unmarried, no children. A career woman, in the aggressive sense. The kind of woman who steamrolled through boardrooms, left exes in her wake, and had no interest in being handled by anyone.
Bertha’s smirk deepened. That’s about to change.
Denise cleared her throat. “So, how does this work?”
Bertha leaned back against the console, crossing her legs. “Simple. The chamber changes whatever you want. Looks, personality, memories�"you name it.” She tapped her nails against the screen. “Ten changes for the trial. We can do them all at once or spread them out. What are you thinking for Ms. Greene?”
Denise hesitated. “I mean�"she’s brilliant the way she is.”
Bertha rolled her eyes. So predictable. “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… we tweak how she got to where she is? Nothing visual. Just a little… rewriting.”
Before Denise could react, she pressed execute.
The chamber shuddered. A low, groaning whir echoed through the room.
Denise jolted. “Is it supposed to sound like that?”
Bertha tilted her head, intrigued. The machine was struggling. Rewriting everything about Nicolle’s professional history wasn’t an easy lift.
Nicolle herself barely blinked as a ripple passed over her.
When it faded, everything was the same�"her stance, her outfit, her perfectly lacquered nails. But Bertha knew better.
The profile flickered.
Vice President of Sales, Nicolle Greene… rose to prominence under the explicit patronage of senior male executives. Every promotion, every deal, every corner office had been handed to her because of her ability to captivate and maneuver within male-dominated spaces. She never worked a room so much as she worked the men inside it. They had adored her, championed her, fought each other to push her higher. Her presence was an unspoken currency, her career built on implicit exchanges of attention, admiration, and exclusivity. She had always known how to make them want her success.
And she never questioned it. Because in this reality, that was simply how the world worked for her.
Bertha exhaled, pleased. Now, let’s see how the assistant handles this.
Denise’s eyes widened. She was staring at Nicolle�"really staring, like something was wrong.
Nicolle, utterly unaware of the seismic shift in her reality, flicked her hair over one shoulder. “So, how does this work, exactly?” she asked, as if she hadn’t already been through it.
Bertha grinned, slow and knowing. “Oh, we’re already working.”
Denise took a cautious step forward. She, of course, was unaffected. “Ms. Greene, do you…” She hesitated. “Do you feel different?”
Nicolle arched a brow. “No? Why would I?” She gave Denise an indulgent smile�"the kind of faintly condescending smile reserved for eager junior associates, for men who tripped over their words around her. “You’re sweet for asking, though.”
Denise swallowed. Something’s off.