Our TG Caption

Bertha tilted her head, watching with amusement as Nicolle rummaged through her handbag—handbag?—with the care and precision of a woman balancing PTA meetings and carpool schedules. Denise, still standing there in her neon hoodie and sneakers, looked utterly lost.

“Uh,” Denise started, shifting awkwardly. “So, she’s, like… different?”

Bertha flashed a smirk. “Oh, totally. And she always has been.” She gestured lazily at the chamber. “To her, nothing’s changed. She’s always been the ‘mom’ friend. Always responsible. Always prepared. Always making sure everyone else is taken care of before herself. And, you know, reality’s adjusted too.” She winked. “Your team’s never had a cheer captain, per se, but Nicolle’s always been the one making sure everyone shows up to practice on time and eats a proper breakfast first. You’d be lost without her.”

Denise wrinkled her nose. “Ew, that’s weird.”

“Is it?” Bertha hummed, tapping idly on the control panel. “Think about it. Doesn’t it make perfect sense? Nicolle’s always been a little bit bossy, hasn’t she? Always nagging people to hydrate, always making a big deal about stretching, always fussing over dumb stuff like making sure everyone’s uniforms are ironed—”

Denise paled. “Wait. She does do that.”

“Of course she does,” Bertha said breezily, twirling a lock of auburn hair around her finger. “Because that’s just who she is now.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling through Nicolle’s profile. “But, honestly? I think we can do better.” She flicked her gaze toward Denise. “Tell me, do you ever get the feeling that people just don’t appreciate Nicolle enough?”

Denise blinked. “Uh…”

Bertha’s smirk widened. “I mean, she does so much for you guys, doesn’t she? Wouldn’t it be better if she was just… more?” Before Denise could protest, Bertha flicked a few switches and cranked up the settings.

She pressed execute.

The chamber shimmered, and a low, unnatural hum filled the room.

Nicolle, still standing inside, froze. The ripple that passed over her was different this time—deeper, heavier, like the fabric of reality itself was groaning under the strain of what it was being forced to accept.

Then, the changes took.

The pastel cardigan softened into something even more delicate, its lace trim perfectly stitched. The floral sundress grew longer, its silhouette becoming that of a modest 1950s housewife. Her ballet flats became sensible kitten heels, designed for gentle but purposeful steps. A pearl necklace materialized around her throat.

Her posture stiffened into something rigidly poised, her shoulders drawn back, her chin lifted ever so slightly, as if she were about to offer someone a tray of fresh-baked cookies. Her expression melted into something eerily serene, a permanent, glassy-eyed warmth overtaking her features. Her hands folded gently in front of her, and she let out a soft, contented sigh—as if standing perfectly still and waiting to be useful was the most fulfilling thing she could possibly do.

Reality groaned.

Denise staggered backward, gripping the edge of the control panel. “What the—”

But it was already done.

The world had shifted, reshaping itself to fit this version of Nicolle.

She had always been this way.

Always baking treats for her classmates, always bringing adorably handwritten to-do lists to practice, always fussing over Denise’s diet and study habits. Teachers adored her for her pleasant demeanor, the way she greeted them each morning with a bright, wholesome smile. The JV cheer squad didn't just respect her—they needed her. She was the one who made sure uniforms were pressed, that no one cursed too much, that all the girls followed a structured, mature routine.

And yet, she wasn’t mature.

She was still sixteen.

She still took algebra, still went to school dances, still did all the things a teenage girl did—except now, she did them with the unwavering, unquestioning enthusiasm of a woman deliriously happy to dedicate her life to homemaking.

Denise’s breath hitched. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “She’s, like… insane.”

Bertha laughed.

“Oh, honey,” she purred, leaning against the console. “She’s perfect.”

Denise turned back to Nicolle, who—still trapped in the chamber, still utterly oblivious to what had just happened—was adjusting the pearls around her neck. When she looked at Denise, her gaze was so full of warmth it made Denise shudder.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Nicolle cooed. “Your hoodie is wrinkled! I just knew this would happen—I told you to let me iron it this morning! Come here, I must fix it.”

Denise took a horrified step backward. “No, I’m good—”

Nicolle tittered, a light, effortless giggle. “Oh, don’t be silly! I love taking care of my best girls! It’s what I do!” She beamed, hands clasped together. “Honestly, Denise, I don’t know how you get through the day without someone looking after you. What if you don’t eat enough? What if you get cold? What if—oh, heavens—what if no one reminds you to sit properly? You know slouching is just dreadful for posture!”

Reality buckled around them, working overtime to justify why a 16-year-old girl was talking like this.

Denise whirled back toward Bertha. “Change her back.”

Bertha feigned innocence. “Why? Isn’t this better?”

“NO,” Denise snapped. “She sounds like—like a Stepford wife! This is so weird!”

But Nicolle, of course, didn’t hear her. She was too busy reaching into her handbag—her pristine, beige mom purse—and pulling out a neatly folded sweater. She spoke again, her voice laced with endless concern and patience. “You must wear this, dear. It’s chilly today.”

Denise was, finally, rendered speechless.

Bertha, still leaning against the console, let out a low whistle, her smirk widening.