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.

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… *legs for days*? No, weeks, actually. A month or two.” 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*.

Her legs—God, her *legs*. They were obscene. Endless, statuesque, extending in graceful, mind-bending proportions that defied reason. Her once-average frame had stretched dramatically, easily pushing past six feet, yet it wasn’t awkward. No, her entire body had subtly adjusted to maintain perfect proportions, but her legs? They were everything. Smooth, toned, shaped like they belonged on some celestial runway.

Her clashing horror-show of an outfit had vanished, replaced by a sleek black mini-dress that barely covered anything, its hemline flirting dangerously high. The fabric clung to her in all the right places, accentuating her absurdly elongated frame. Her arms and torso had remained mostly the same, but her legs? They dominated, and her posture had shifted to match—hips cocked just enough to emphasize their length, her stance impossibly poised.

Her shoes had undergone the most dramatic transformation. No more hideous clogs. Now, she stood—no, *towered*—atop a pair of razor-thin stilettos that seemed less like footwear and more like engineering marvels. Scarlet leather hugged her calves in a scandalous display, winding up her impossibly long legs in an elegant spiral before ending just below her thighs. Every step would be a statement, a slow, commanding stride that demanded attention.

More than that, her entire *presence* had shifted. She wasn’t Nicolle, the quirky disaster. She was *Nicolle*, the impossibly long-limbed, graceful goddess who had never known what it was like to trip or stumble. Every movement was effortless, a slow, deliberate glide rather than a mere walk.

Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had always been like this. Always a statuesque vision of impossibility, always drawing stares, always leaving people wondering if their eyes were playing tricks. Her wardrobe had long since adapted to accommodate her endlessly long legs—skirts, shorts, slits cut scandalously high, anything to showcase what she *clearly* knew was her best feature. She never rushed, never stumbled, never had to try to be noticed.

Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She adjusted a bracelet, tilting her head down slightly—*so* slightly—to meet Dennis’s gaze, her expression unreadable.

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

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 statuesque, this poised, this…” she waved a hand, “*impossible.* And, technically, she’s always been the one who draws every eye in the room.”

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.