Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting her auburn ponytail for the tenth time that morning. Long, sleek, and impossibly shiny, it cascaded down her back like molten copper. She smirked, tightening her company-issued lab coat around her slim waist and smoothing the charcoal-gray sheath dress underneath. The dress barely hit mid-thigh—just short enough to keep things interesting—but the coat was a total buzzkill. The higher-ups insisted on it for “professionalism.” Professionalism? Please. That was something women without legs for days, a face that could stop traffic, and hair straight out of a shampoo commercial had to worry about.

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 good? That was all that mattered.

The sharp beep of the front door dragged her from her reverie. With a sigh, she stood, adjusted the lab coat just enough to tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her knee-high boots, scuffed but still sexy, 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*.

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. “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… she’s a total femme fatale?” 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.

The garish mishmash of colors and patterns vanished, replaced with a sleek, form-fitting black dress that hugged her curves like a second skin, slit high enough to hint at danger. A bold red lip painted her mouth into something sultry, while her eyes—once wide and cartoonishly expressive—were now framed by dark, smoky makeup that gave her an air of mystery. Her nails, once neon purple and comically long, had transformed into sharp, glossy crimson, perfectly sculpted to match her lips.

Her sandy blonde hair had brightened to a shimmering ash blonde, falling in soft, voluminous waves that kissed her shoulders with effortless grace. It gleamed like spun silk, bouncing with the slightest movement. Her ears, hidden by her locks, boasted ruby stud earrings.

And the clogs? Oh, they were long gone. In their place, *exquisite* thigh-high boots of supple red leather now encased her legs, their glossy finish reflecting the dim lighting. The heels were dangerously high, pencil-thin, the kind of thing that made walking an art form. Gold-tipped laces ran up the sides, woven in an intricate corset pattern, cinching the boots tight around her calves before they flared just slightly at the tops. They weren’t just boots—they were *weapons*, designed to make every step both a statement and a seduction.

More than that, her entire *presence* had shifted. She didn’t fidget or shriek. She *sauntered*, slow and deliberate, like every movement was designed to be watched. Her posture exuded effortless confidence, and when she turned to Dennis, her gaze was piercing, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had always been this way. Always commanding attention with a single look, always speaking in low, velvety tones that suggested secrets and power. She was the kind of woman who left a room smelling of expensive perfume and unspoken possibilities. And she had always been the one in control, the one who pulled the strings in her marriage. *Nicolle Taylor didn’t chase—she was chased.*

Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She adjusted a gold bracelet and gave Dennis a slow once-over, one brow arching in subtle amusement.

Dennis stared, his mouth slightly open. “She, uh, looks… different.”

Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s always been this seductive, this poised, this…” she waved a hand, “*devastating.* And, technically, she’s always been the one in charge of your relationship.”

Dennis swallowed. “And… she has no clue?”

Bertha popped her lips. “Nope.” She shrugged. “To her, she’s always been this way. If you left now, the world would adjust too—friends, coworkers, and Judy included. You, of course, will remember the difference.” She winked. “Lucky you.”

Dennis continued staring at Nicolle—who, of course, was utterly unaware of what had just happened. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it again.

Bertha smirked. This job *never* got old.