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… she’s just way cooler?” 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.

Gone were the obnoxious clashing patterns. Instead, she wore a perfectly worn leather jacket over a simple, fitted black tee, paired with effortlessly cool, slightly distressed jeans that hugged her just right. A silver pendant rested against her collarbone, catching the dim light as she shifted.

Her hair had darkened to a rich, glossy chestnut, tousled in that *I-woke-up-like-this* way that screamed confidence. It fell in soft layers, framing a face now free of excessive makeup, her features striking without needing to try. A pair of aviator sunglasses perched atop her head, ready to be slid down with casual flair at a moment’s notice.

Her nails, once garish neon, were now short and clean, painted a subtle, effortless matte gray. The flamingo earrings? Gone. Instead, a single silver hoop adorned one ear, understated but undeniably stylish.

And the clogs? *God, no.* In their place were sleek, well-worn combat boots, the kind that looked like they’d seen a few music festivals and long road trips but were still tough enough to get into a bar fight if necessary.

More than just her appearance, her entire *aura* had changed. She leaned against the console with the ease of someone who knew they belonged anywhere they went, her movements slow and deliberate, exuding a quiet confidence. When she looked at Dennis, her expression wasn’t confused or overly animated—it was relaxed, amused, like she was perpetually in on a joke no one else got.

Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had always been this way. Always the effortlessly cool woman who could talk her way into VIP sections, who knew obscure but excellent bands before they got big, who somehow made even casual indifference feel magnetic. She had the kind of laugh that made people lean in, the kind of presence that made everyone—Dennis included—want to impress her.

Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She adjusted the cuff of her leather jacket and gave Dennis a knowing smirk.

Dennis blinked. “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 effortlessly cool, always been the one people gravitate toward, always been…” she waved a hand, “*that woman* everyone secretly wants to be.” She grinned. “And, technically, she’s always been a little out of your league.”

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.

Bertha tapped her manicured fingers against the console, watching Dennis as he processed his newly cool wife. His expression wasn’t quite what she’d expected—he wasn’t horrified, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled either.

She rolled her eyes. *Some people are never satisfied.*

Nicolle still had that effortless, magnetic presence, but maybe she was a little *too* cool. Bertha could practically see Dennis shrinking in her shadow. A guy like him—polo shirts, cargo shorts, the type who owned a “World’s Best Dad” mug without irony—was never going to keep up with a woman who looked like she’d once played bass in an underground band before deciding she was too good for fame.

*Fine,* Bertha thought, already adjusting the settings. *Let’s make her cool, but not intimidatingly cool.*

She flicked through the parameters, smirking as she tweaked a few sliders. The chamber hummed again, reality shifting around Nicolle like ripples in a pond.

Her leather jacket softened into a worn-in denim number—still stylish, still effortlessly casual, but less *rebel-with-a-secret-backstory*. The combat boots relaxed into well-loved, stylish sneakers—cool, yes, but the kind you could still run errands in.

Her hair stayed rich chestnut but lost some of its perfectly disheveled *I-travel-the-world-with-only-a-backpack* layers, settling into something a little more natural. Just an easy, healthy shine, the kind of hair you’d compliment without wondering if she was in a rock documentary. The aviators disappeared from her head—too much. Instead, she gained a simple, stylish watch, like she had places to be but wasn’t in a rush.

Her posture adjusted—still confident, but a little more relaxed, a little more approachable. Less *aloof indie film star*, more *that cool mom at the PTA meeting who somehow makes casual look chic*.

The subtle, magnetic energy remained, but now it wasn’t quite as intense. She still knew the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants, still had impeccable taste in music, still carried herself like someone people naturally wanted to be around—but now, it felt like you could *actually* be her friend.

Reality sealed around her again. Dennis, watching, let out a breath of relief.

Bertha suppressed a laugh. *That’s more your speed, huh?*

She leaned against the console, tilting her head at him. “Better?”

Dennis hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, this… this feels more like *her*.”

Bertha barely resisted the urge to correct him. *No, Dennis, this is just the version of her that won’t make you feel like an embarrassing accessory.* But hey, customer satisfaction mattered.

She tapped the screen, logging the changes. “Well, there you go. Still cool, still out of your league—but now, just by a couple of inches instead of a mile.”

Dennis let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

Bertha smirked, folding her arms. *Men were so predictable.*