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 only exists the way she does *because* men find her attractive?”

Before Dennis could respond, she pressed *execute*.

The chamber groaned.

Not shimmered. Not flickered. *Groaned*. The lights dimmed momentarily, the very walls seeming to warp under the weight of reality struggling to *make that work*.

A ripple passed over Nicolle.

And then—she changed.

Her hair darkened, shedding its disheveled bun in favor of voluminous waves that spilled over her shoulders. Her floral blouse tightened, morphing into a fitted, off-the-shoulder top that clung just right, emphasizing curves that hadn’t been there before. The leopard-print leggings smoothed into sleek, sculpting jeans that gave her an enviable silhouette. Her garish bangles vanished, replaced by delicate gold jewelry that hinted at expensive taste. The flamingo earrings shrank into tasteful studs, the lime-green clogs transfiguring into stylish heels.

Her skin lost its unevenness, settling into a warm, airbrushed glow. Her features sharpened—high cheekbones, full lips that seemed to always carry a hint of a pout. Her nails? French manicured, effortlessly chic. Even the way she stood changed—shoulders back, hips tilted just slightly, an aura of effortless allure replacing her former, over-the-top energy.

Memories *lurched*, shifting to accommodate the new Nicolle. She had never worn anything tacky—God, no. She had always been stylish, always put together, always just *feminine enough* to turn heads without looking like she was *trying too hard*. Men had *always* found her attractive. They had *always* shaped her. Every fashion choice, every grooming habit, every inch of her aesthetic had been subtly molded by centuries of collective male preference, distilled into a modern ideal.

And she had *never* questioned it.

Dennis gaped. “Uh—wow.”

Bertha smirked, arms crossed as she leaned against the console. “Oh, totally. And she’s always looked like this. Reality’s adjusted. She’s never had a ‘bad phase’ or dressed in a way men wouldn’t approve of. If you left now, everyone—her friends, coworkers, Judy—would only remember *this* version of Nicolle.” She cocked her head. “And you, of course, will remember the difference.”

Dennis swallowed. Nicolle, oblivious to her own reinvention, turned to him with a sultry little smile. “You okay, babe?” Her voice was smoother, more refined.

Dennis opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.

He had no idea what to say.