Our TG Caption

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, even if she wasn’t spending downtown money. 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 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 lab coat to maintain the perfect silhouette, and strode into the lobby, heels clicking smartly against the linoleum.

“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. She had a naughty idea. “How about… she’s just cooler?” 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 floral blouse and leopard-print leggings were gone. In their place? A sleek, tailored leather jacket over a cropped silk camisole, paired with high-waisted black jeans that looked like they had been made for her. Her jewelry had transformed into something effortlessly chic—small gold hoops, a delicate layered necklace, and a statement watch that oozed quiet luxury. Her hair was now expertly styled, loose waves framing her face, and her makeup had the perfect balance of effortless and striking—sharp cat eyeliner, a nude lip, an enviable glow.

She carried herself differently, too. Confidence radiated from every inch of her, her posture relaxed yet self-assured. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t babble. She didn’t clomp. She simply… existed, effortlessly magnetic, someone people wanted to be around.

Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle was still a mother, still 41, still Judy’s parent. But she had never been the woman who dressed like a human garage sale. No, she had always been cool. The kind of mom who had a standing reservation at the trendiest wine bar, who knew every underground music venue, who could make conversation with anyone. She had never married Dennis—she had dated him once, sure, but they had quickly realized they were better off as friends. Co-parents, nothing more. The idea of them together in any romantic sense had never even crossed her mind.

Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She glanced down at her outfit, taking it in with quiet appreciation before pulling out her phone and unlocking it with a smooth flick.

Dennis stared, mouth agape, horror dawning slow and painful. “What… what just happened?”

Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Reality’s adjusted. She was never your wife. Just Nicolle—the effortlessly cool woman. And, technically, she never wasn’t.” She popped her lips. “Friends, coworkers, and Judy included. They’ll all remember the new her. You, of course, will remember the difference.” She winked. “Lucky you.”

Dennis just stared.

Nicolle, still silent, scrolled through her phone, perfectly unbothered.

Bertha grinned.