Our TG Captionpage 4
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Here’s your revised version with all the requested changes:
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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, smoothing out the sleeves of her precisely tailored lab coat. The higher-ups insisted on it for “professionalism,” but she’d made it work. She had paired it with a fitted ivory blouse tucked into high-waisted, wide-leg trousers in a deep emerald shade—elegant, fashion-forward, and expensive-looking. The ensemble was completed by gold hoops, a sleek watch, and the most deliciously impractical pair of pumps. If she had to be the face of *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*, she was going to do it in style.
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 lab coat just enough to tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her heels 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 heels, 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 new *career path*?” 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 transformed into a stunning, tight-fitting flight attendant’s uniform in a *brilliant* shade of red. The form-hugging top had a sharp, plunging neckline, accentuated by a silky, scarlet scarf tied neatly at her throat. The fitted skirt matched perfectly, hugging her hips before tapering off just above the knee. Her pumps had gained an extra inch, sleek and glossy.
Her face bore the unmistakable touch of expert cosmetic work—high cheekbones, plush lips, and just a hint of Botox keeping her skin smooth and taut. Thick, shimmering eyeshadow dusted across her lids, a sparkling crimson that perfectly matched both her lips and uniform, making her gaze sultry and striking. Her golden blonde hair had been styled into a low, bulbous chignon, chic and heavy, resting at the nape of her neck like a perfectly polished accessory.
But the uniform wasn’t just for show. Her memories had rewritten themselves. For nearly two decades, Nicolle had worked for a major airline, jetting across the world, tending to passengers. She loved her job—*really* loved her job. It wasn’t about the destinations. It wasn’t about the service. It was about the *thrill*. The adrenaline of sneaking into hotel rooms, of locking lavatory doors behind her with a playful wink. The moment a particularly well-dressed businessman, a lonely executive, or a thrill-seeking stranger boarded her flight, she could sense it—the unspoken opportunity.
In this new reality, nobody—except for a few of her coworkers and the men lucky enough to experience her attention—knew just *how* much she loved her work. Not her family. Not her passengers. Certainly not her husband.
And yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She smoothed down her skirt, adjusting her scarf with a practiced flick of the wrist, utterly at ease in her new skin.
Dennis stared, his mouth slightly open, blinking as if trying to process what had just happened. His wife, the loud, oblivious woman who had walked in beside him minutes ago, was gone. And in her place? Someone else entirely. Someone who had always been this way.
Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s been a flight attendant her whole adult life.”
Dennis swallowed hard. “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.” Her smile sharpened. *No need to mention the frequent flier perks Nicolle personally offered.*
Dennis stared at Nicolle, who was already scrolling through her phone, checking flight schedules, murmuring something about an upcoming trip to Dubai. His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something, but then closed again.
---
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, smoothing out the sleeves of her precisely tailored lab coat. The higher-ups insisted on it for “professionalism,” but she’d made it work. She had paired it with a fitted ivory blouse tucked into high-waisted, wide-leg trousers in a deep emerald shade—elegant, fashion-forward, and expensive-looking. The ensemble was completed by gold hoops, a sleek watch, and the most deliciously impractical pair of pumps. If she had to be the face of *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*, she was going to do it in style.
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 lab coat just enough to tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her heels 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 heels, 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 new *career path*?” 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 transformed into a stunning, tight-fitting flight attendant’s uniform in a *brilliant* shade of red. The form-hugging top had a sharp, plunging neckline, accentuated by a silky, scarlet scarf tied neatly at her throat. The fitted skirt matched perfectly, hugging her hips before tapering off just above the knee. Her pumps had gained an extra inch, sleek and glossy.
Her face bore the unmistakable touch of expert cosmetic work—high cheekbones, plush lips, and just a hint of Botox keeping her skin smooth and taut. Thick, shimmering eyeshadow dusted across her lids, a sparkling crimson that perfectly matched both her lips and uniform, making her gaze sultry and striking. Her golden blonde hair had been styled into a low, bulbous chignon, chic and heavy, resting at the nape of her neck like a perfectly polished accessory.
But the uniform wasn’t just for show. Her memories had rewritten themselves. For nearly two decades, Nicolle had worked for a major airline, jetting across the world, tending to passengers. She loved her job—*really* loved her job. It wasn’t about the destinations. It wasn’t about the service. It was about the *thrill*. The adrenaline of sneaking into hotel rooms, of locking lavatory doors behind her with a playful wink. The moment a particularly well-dressed businessman, a lonely executive, or a thrill-seeking stranger boarded her flight, she could sense it—the unspoken opportunity.
In this new reality, nobody—except for a few of her coworkers and the men lucky enough to experience her attention—knew just *how* much she loved her work. Not her family. Not her passengers. Certainly not her husband.
And yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She smoothed down her skirt, adjusting her scarf with a practiced flick of the wrist, utterly at ease in her new skin.
Dennis stared, his mouth slightly open, blinking as if trying to process what had just happened. His wife, the loud, oblivious woman who had walked in beside him minutes ago, was gone. And in her place? Someone else entirely. Someone who had always been this way.
Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s been a flight attendant her whole adult life.”
Dennis swallowed hard. “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.” Her smile sharpened. *No need to mention the frequent flier perks Nicolle personally offered.*
Dennis stared at Nicolle, who was already scrolling through her phone, checking flight schedules, murmuring something about an upcoming trip to Dubai. His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something, but then closed again.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!