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Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting her twisted rope bun for the tenth time that morning. Sleek, intricate, and just unconventional enough to make a statement, the updo set off the gold hoops dangling from her ears. She smirked, smoothing her fitted ivory blouse and tucking a stray thread from her emerald wide-leg trousers back into the seam. The trousers were just dramatic enough to turn heads, flaring over her beige pumps. A sleek gold watch rested snugly on her wrist—a polished contrast to the outdated console she leaned against.
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 her blouse just enough to hint at collarbones, and strutted into the lobby. Her pumps, polished to perfection, clicked authoritatively 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 pumps, 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 a D-tier celebrity? Someone whose name sounds familiar but no one can quite place. Maybe she had a moment on reality TV once.” 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 floral blouse had been replaced by a garishly embellished crop top, the kind worn to nightclubs and desperate Instagram live streams. Her leggings were now shiny, skintight faux leather, paired with platform stilettos in a metallic silver. Her jewelry had tripled—hoops, layered necklaces, rings stacked on every other finger. The flamingo earrings? Bigger, gaudier, and even more aggressively neon. Her spray tan had deepened into a tone that screamed expensive but tacky, and her hair, now aggressively voluminous with perfectly sculpted waves, cascaded down in honey-blonde perfection.
Memories rewrote themselves. She had always been someone—just not quite anyone. Maybe she had been on a reality show about rich housewives, or a short-lived competition show, or a viral scandal from the mid-2010s. The details were fuzzy, even to her. She had long since accepted that the general public only half-remembered her, but she still carried herself with the delusional confidence of a former star who believed she was due for a comeback. Paparazzi rarely followed her anymore (except for the occasional tabloid catching her at a gas station in full glam), but in her mind, she was still famous enough to justify the effort. She believe that one day, she would be whisked away from her mundane existence and back into some sort of limelight.
And to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She flipped her hair and adjusted her necklace, posing as if cameras were hidden in the room. She gave Bertha a knowing smile, the kind exchanged between two women who understood the power of branding.
Dennis stared, wide-eyed. “She, uh, looks… different.”
Bertha leaned in, her blouse shifting just enough to highlight her collarbone. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s famous. Just… vaguely. No one’s quite sure from what. But trust me, she knows she is.” She tapped the screen. “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 looked like he might pass out.
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 her blouse just enough to hint at collarbones, and strutted into the lobby. Her pumps, polished to perfection, clicked authoritatively 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 pumps, 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 a D-tier celebrity? Someone whose name sounds familiar but no one can quite place. Maybe she had a moment on reality TV once.” 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 floral blouse had been replaced by a garishly embellished crop top, the kind worn to nightclubs and desperate Instagram live streams. Her leggings were now shiny, skintight faux leather, paired with platform stilettos in a metallic silver. Her jewelry had tripled—hoops, layered necklaces, rings stacked on every other finger. The flamingo earrings? Bigger, gaudier, and even more aggressively neon. Her spray tan had deepened into a tone that screamed expensive but tacky, and her hair, now aggressively voluminous with perfectly sculpted waves, cascaded down in honey-blonde perfection.
Memories rewrote themselves. She had always been someone—just not quite anyone. Maybe she had been on a reality show about rich housewives, or a short-lived competition show, or a viral scandal from the mid-2010s. The details were fuzzy, even to her. She had long since accepted that the general public only half-remembered her, but she still carried herself with the delusional confidence of a former star who believed she was due for a comeback. Paparazzi rarely followed her anymore (except for the occasional tabloid catching her at a gas station in full glam), but in her mind, she was still famous enough to justify the effort. She believe that one day, she would be whisked away from her mundane existence and back into some sort of limelight.
And to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She flipped her hair and adjusted her necklace, posing as if cameras were hidden in the room. She gave Bertha a knowing smile, the kind exchanged between two women who understood the power of branding.
Dennis stared, wide-eyed. “She, uh, looks… different.”
Bertha leaned in, her blouse shifting just enough to highlight her collarbone. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s famous. Just… vaguely. No one’s quite sure from what. But trust me, she knows she is.” She tapped the screen. “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 looked like he might pass out.
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