Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, running a hand over the sharp angles of her jet-black bob, streaked with panels of iridescent blue. Every strand was precisely in place, the kind of edgy, high-maintenance look that screamed fashion rather than rebellion. She smirked, adjusting her company-issued lab coat and smoothing the structured peplum of her ink-colored dress underneath. The dress was snug but not too snug—form-fitting without veering into unprofessional. The higher-ups insisted on the coat for “professionalism,” but she made it work.

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 had 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 her coat just enough to give the suggestion of curves, and strutted into the lobby. Her experimental stiletto boots, sleek and severe, 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… a little life experience adjustment?” 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 hair was now a brassy, over-bleached blonde with visible roots. Her makeup thickened, smoky shadow creeping high, glossy red lips smudged at the corners. A faux-leather miniskirt replaced the leggings, now so short that a wrong step would be catastrophic. A crop top with "Daddy’s Favorite" scrawled in rhinestones clung to her, her bust now exaggeratedly full. Sky-high platform heels adorned her feet, the plastic clogs mercifully gone.

But it wasn’t just the appearance—her expression had shifted. There was an easy, vacant charm in her smirk, a slow, knowing bat of thick, fake lashes. The energy of a woman who had long since embraced being cheap and easy.

And Dennis? He was gone.

Reality had reshaped itself. The chamber had plucked him out of her history like a stray thread, unwinding years of marriage and replacing them with something much more transactional. Nicolle had never been married to Dennis. They had met once, years ago—a brief encounter that led to Judy, but no relationship beyond that.

To everyone else, Nicolle had spent her life bouncing from seedy motel to seedy apartment, always one bad night away from something worse. She had no memory of PTA meetings, home-cooked dinners, or motherly concern. Judy, meanwhile, had always grown up with a mother who prioritized making rent over making good choices.

And Nicolle? She had no idea.

She snapped her gum, twirling a fried blonde strand around her manicured finger. “Sooo, like… what’s next?” she cooed, shifting her weight in a way that should have looked flirty but mostly just looked well-practiced.

Dennis took a slow, horrified step backward. “Oh… my God.”

Bertha leaned in, letting her lab coat slip just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she’s always been this way.” She smirked. “Reality’s adjusted. Judy’s always known her like this. Friends, family—everyone. You, of course, remember the difference.” She winked. “Lucky you.”

Dennis stared, mouth opening slightly as if to say something, then closed again.

Nicolle smacked her gum. “Oh my gosh, wait! Does this thing do lip fillers? Like, for free?”