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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 two girls standing in front of her. “Denise and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle?”
Denise Taylor, a stocky, bright-eyed girl in a neon-pink JV cheer hoodie, nodded enthusiastically. She had the boundless, almost aggressive energy of someone who’d had too much caffeine before practice. “Yeah, we saw this place on TikTok, and we had to check it out. Like, is it for real?”
Bertha barely listened, already turning to Nicolle. And wow. She had to fight the urge to gag.
Nicolle Taylor looked like a Lisa Frank folder had exploded on her. Her tie-dye crop top clashed violently with a ruffled plaid miniskirt, and her sneakers were an obnoxious shade of metallic teal. Glitter-smeared eyeliner covered half her eyelids, and her hair—once probably blonde—was streaked with so many artificial colors it resembled an ice cream sundae melting under fluorescent lights. Chunky plastic bracelets lined her arms, clicking together every time she moved, and on her phone case? A blinding, rhinestone-covered pop socket shaped like a unicorn.
God, does she not own a mirror?
“This place is so cute!” Nicolle shrieked, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Like, oh my gosh, when Denise showed me the videos, I was like, ‘Babe, we have to check this 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 bracelets clacking. Denise trailed behind, equally excitable, their sneakers squeaking against the tile. 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: 16 years old, JV cheer squad, self-proclaimed “trendsetter,” follows over 800 influencers, mother’s a Pilates instructor, father’s in finance. Blah, blah, blah.
Bertha smirked. Of course, Nicolle was a cheerleader. Girls like her always thought they were the main character when really, they were just background noise.
Denise bounced on her toes. “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?”
Denise hesitated, glancing at her friend, who was admiring her neon-pink nails under the harsh lighting. “I mean… Nicolle’s, like, the best already, obviously.” She grinned, nudging her. “But, like, what if we made her super responsible? Like, crazy organized and stuff?”
Bertha rolled her eyes. Teenagers were so predictable. “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… she’s a total mom?” Before either girl could respond, she pressed execute.
The chamber shimmered. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, she looked… different.
The tie-dye and plaid disaster had been replaced with a crisp pastel cardigan over a modest floral sundress. Her sneakers were gone, replaced by sensible ballet flats, and her rhinestone pop socket had vanished, leaving her phone encased in a sturdy, practical cover. Her rainbow-streaked hair had softened into warm, honeyed curls, neatly pinned back in an effortless, practical style.
But it wasn’t just her outfit. It was her.
Nicolle’s posture, once all exaggerated gestures and flailing excitement, had straightened into something composed and serene. Her wide, cartoonishly expressive eyes had softened, filled with a warm, knowing patience. Her lips—now glossed in an understated pink—quirked into a gentle, understanding smile.
Her bracelets were gone, of course. Too impractical. Instead, a simple gold watch sat on her wrist, the kind a mother might wear to ensure she was always on time for her kids’ soccer games.
And just like that, reality adjusted. Nicolle had always been like this. She’d always been the responsible one, the planner, the caretaker. The girl who carried tissues in her bag just in case someone needed one. The one who reminded everyone about deadlines and told people when they’d had enough caffeine. She was the den mother of the JV cheer squad, the girl who made sure everyone stretched before practice and checked to see if they needed water.
To Nicolle, nothing had changed. She adjusted the strap of her handbag—when had she even had a handbag?—and gave Denise a soft, knowing look. “You do have an extra pair of socks in your locker, right?” she asked. “You always forget, and I really don’t want you getting blisters.”
Denise blinked. “Huh?”
Nicolle was already digging into her bag. “I think I have an extra set of hair ties in here, too, if you need one.”
Bertha barely suppressed a laugh.
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 two girls standing in front of her. “Denise and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle?”
Denise Taylor, a stocky, bright-eyed girl in a neon-pink JV cheer hoodie, nodded enthusiastically. She had the boundless, almost aggressive energy of someone who’d had too much caffeine before practice. “Yeah, we saw this place on TikTok, and we had to check it out. Like, is it for real?”
Bertha barely listened, already turning to Nicolle. And wow. She had to fight the urge to gag.
Nicolle Taylor looked like a Lisa Frank folder had exploded on her. Her tie-dye crop top clashed violently with a ruffled plaid miniskirt, and her sneakers were an obnoxious shade of metallic teal. Glitter-smeared eyeliner covered half her eyelids, and her hair—once probably blonde—was streaked with so many artificial colors it resembled an ice cream sundae melting under fluorescent lights. Chunky plastic bracelets lined her arms, clicking together every time she moved, and on her phone case? A blinding, rhinestone-covered pop socket shaped like a unicorn.
God, does she not own a mirror?
“This place is so cute!” Nicolle shrieked, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Like, oh my gosh, when Denise showed me the videos, I was like, ‘Babe, we have to check this 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 bracelets clacking. Denise trailed behind, equally excitable, their sneakers squeaking against the tile. 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: 16 years old, JV cheer squad, self-proclaimed “trendsetter,” follows over 800 influencers, mother’s a Pilates instructor, father’s in finance. Blah, blah, blah.
Bertha smirked. Of course, Nicolle was a cheerleader. Girls like her always thought they were the main character when really, they were just background noise.
Denise bounced on her toes. “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?”
Denise hesitated, glancing at her friend, who was admiring her neon-pink nails under the harsh lighting. “I mean… Nicolle’s, like, the best already, obviously.” She grinned, nudging her. “But, like, what if we made her super responsible? Like, crazy organized and stuff?”
Bertha rolled her eyes. Teenagers were so predictable. “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… she’s a total mom?” Before either girl could respond, she pressed execute.
The chamber shimmered. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, she looked… different.
The tie-dye and plaid disaster had been replaced with a crisp pastel cardigan over a modest floral sundress. Her sneakers were gone, replaced by sensible ballet flats, and her rhinestone pop socket had vanished, leaving her phone encased in a sturdy, practical cover. Her rainbow-streaked hair had softened into warm, honeyed curls, neatly pinned back in an effortless, practical style.
But it wasn’t just her outfit. It was her.
Nicolle’s posture, once all exaggerated gestures and flailing excitement, had straightened into something composed and serene. Her wide, cartoonishly expressive eyes had softened, filled with a warm, knowing patience. Her lips—now glossed in an understated pink—quirked into a gentle, understanding smile.
Her bracelets were gone, of course. Too impractical. Instead, a simple gold watch sat on her wrist, the kind a mother might wear to ensure she was always on time for her kids’ soccer games.
And just like that, reality adjusted. Nicolle had always been like this. She’d always been the responsible one, the planner, the caretaker. The girl who carried tissues in her bag just in case someone needed one. The one who reminded everyone about deadlines and told people when they’d had enough caffeine. She was the den mother of the JV cheer squad, the girl who made sure everyone stretched before practice and checked to see if they needed water.
To Nicolle, nothing had changed. She adjusted the strap of her handbag—when had she even had a handbag?—and gave Denise a soft, knowing look. “You do have an extra pair of socks in your locker, right?” she asked. “You always forget, and I really don’t want you getting blisters.”
Denise blinked. “Huh?”
Nicolle was already digging into her bag. “I think I have an extra set of hair ties in here, too, if you need one.”
Bertha barely suppressed a laugh.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!