Our TG Captionpage 4
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Here's your rewritten story with the requested changes:
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Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting the high, structured braid coiled atop her head like a crown. Long, auburn, and glossy, it twisted into intricate loops, held together with sleek gold pins. She smirked, tightening her company-issued lab coat around her slim waist and smoothing the tailored black jumpsuit underneath. The fabric clung to her form with effortless elegance, the wide-leg cut elongating her already statuesque frame. The higher-ups insisted on the lab coat for “professionalism,” which was a joke. Professionalism was for people without the confidence to pull off avant-garde fashion.
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 let the metallic detailing of her jumpsuit peek through, and strutted into the lobby. Her sharply pointed heels, polished to a mirror shine, 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… we make her something a little more exciting? Like, a call girl?” 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.
The hideous blouse and leggings were gone, replaced by a slinky violet dress, cut dangerously high and plunging low. Black patent-leather stilettos had replaced the clogs. Her skin was now a shade of smooth, golden bronze, with perfectly manicured nails in a seductive crimson. Her makeup, once garish, was now expertly applied—smoky eyes, glossy lips, and lashes thick enough to cast shadows. Her hair fell to her waist, perfectly straight, an unmistakably high-maintenance dye job of shimmering honey-blonde with deep brunette undertones.
But the biggest shift? Nicolle’s posture, the way she carried herself. The moment the change finalized, she leaned against the chamber’s wall with casual sensuality, lips curving into a knowing smirk. Her bare wrist (the bangles vanished) flicked lazily, and she crossed one leg over the other in a move that was, quite frankly, sinful.
Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had never been married to Dennis—not really. They’d had a short-lived fling years ago, something that resulted in their daughter, Judy. Nicolle had never settled, never even considered it. The idea of domesticity? A total joke. She was a woman who worked for herself—lived for herself. Her profession? Well, that was obvious.
She still loved her daughter, of course. But Judy’s mom was no suburban try-hard in a floral blouse. No, Nicolle had spent years balancing single motherhood with a far more… thrilling line of work. And she was damn good at it.
Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She adjusted the strap of her dress, smoothing a hand over her hip, perfectly at ease.
Dennis, on the other hand, was as pale as a sheet.
“Uh…” He swallowed hard. “She, uh… she looks… different.”
Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s never been your wife, Dennis. She’s an, uh, independent woman. Yeah. Always has been.” She winked. “Lucky you.”
Dennis stared at Nicolle, of course utterly unaware of what had just happened. 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 the high, structured braid coiled atop her head like a crown. Long, auburn, and glossy, it twisted into intricate loops, held together with sleek gold pins. She smirked, tightening her company-issued lab coat around her slim waist and smoothing the tailored black jumpsuit underneath. The fabric clung to her form with effortless elegance, the wide-leg cut elongating her already statuesque frame. The higher-ups insisted on the lab coat for “professionalism,” which was a joke. Professionalism was for people without the confidence to pull off avant-garde fashion.
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 let the metallic detailing of her jumpsuit peek through, and strutted into the lobby. Her sharply pointed heels, polished to a mirror shine, 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… we make her something a little more exciting? Like, a call girl?” 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.
The hideous blouse and leggings were gone, replaced by a slinky violet dress, cut dangerously high and plunging low. Black patent-leather stilettos had replaced the clogs. Her skin was now a shade of smooth, golden bronze, with perfectly manicured nails in a seductive crimson. Her makeup, once garish, was now expertly applied—smoky eyes, glossy lips, and lashes thick enough to cast shadows. Her hair fell to her waist, perfectly straight, an unmistakably high-maintenance dye job of shimmering honey-blonde with deep brunette undertones.
But the biggest shift? Nicolle’s posture, the way she carried herself. The moment the change finalized, she leaned against the chamber’s wall with casual sensuality, lips curving into a knowing smirk. Her bare wrist (the bangles vanished) flicked lazily, and she crossed one leg over the other in a move that was, quite frankly, sinful.
Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had never been married to Dennis—not really. They’d had a short-lived fling years ago, something that resulted in their daughter, Judy. Nicolle had never settled, never even considered it. The idea of domesticity? A total joke. She was a woman who worked for herself—lived for herself. Her profession? Well, that was obvious.
She still loved her daughter, of course. But Judy’s mom was no suburban try-hard in a floral blouse. No, Nicolle had spent years balancing single motherhood with a far more… thrilling line of work. And she was damn good at it.
Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She adjusted the strap of her dress, smoothing a hand over her hip, perfectly at ease.
Dennis, on the other hand, was as pale as a sheet.
“Uh…” He swallowed hard. “She, uh… she looks… different.”
Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s never been your wife, Dennis. She’s an, uh, independent woman. Yeah. Always has been.” She winked. “Lucky you.”
Dennis stared at Nicolle, of course utterly unaware of what had just happened. His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something but then closed again.
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