Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting her auburn hair for the tenth time that morning. Today, she had gone for something a little more intricate—an elegant twist, secured with gold pins, polished but with just enough soft tendrils to look effortless. It complemented her ensemble: a precisely tailored lab coat over 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 more refined?” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed *execute*.

The chamber shimmered. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.

When it faded, she looked… *unrecognizable*.

Gone were the garish prints, the clashing accessories, the chaotic energy. In their place stood a vision of immaculate poise. Nicolle’s body was now wrapped in a stunning, multi-layered silk kimono of deep crimson and gold embroidery. The obi belt cinched her waist perfectly, the knot tied in a way that suggested years of training. Her hair was now jet black, styled into an elaborate *shimada* with delicate floral ornaments adorning the carefully pinned locks. Her makeup was flawless—porcelain-pale skin, dark, artful brows, and lips painted a sharp, perfect vermillion.

She moved differently, too. No longer bouncing, no longer fidgeting. Instead, she stood with an effortless, measured grace, every motion precise, deliberate. When she finally turned to face them, she lowered her gaze slightly, a serene smile gracing her lips.

Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had never been a suburban saleswoman with questionable fashion sense. No, she had been trained since childhood in the delicate arts of performance, etiquette, and conversation. She was a living embodiment of refinement, a perfect hostess, a master of quiet charm and carefully constructed allure. She had never married Dennis—*of course* she hadn’t. The very idea was absurd. He was simply a former client, a passing figure in the long tapestry of her carefully curated life.

Yet, to Nicolle, nothing had changed. She raised a sleeve, inspecting the silk between her fingers as though simply admiring the craftsmanship.

Dennis, on the other hand, had gone pale. “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 elegant, refined woman she *was always meant to be*.” 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.

Bertha watched Dennis squirm, barely holding back a smirk. The poor guy looked like he was about to hurl. *Good.* It was always more fun when they *really* felt the change.

But something about Nicolle—*this* Nicolle—bothered her. The transformation was striking, sure, but there was still a dissonance. The *real* geisha experience ran deeper than just the clothes and the posture. Bertha was nothing if not a perfectionist, and right now, something about this felt unfinished.

She turned back to the console, fingers dancing across the outdated keyboard. “You know,” she mused, “it doesn’t really make sense for her to *just* be a geisha if she’s still, like, *from here.*” She popped a bubble of gum in her mouth. “I mean, her name is *Nicolle Taylor.* Doesn’t exactly scream centuries-old refinement, does it?”

Dennis finally snapped out of his horrified daze. “Wait—what are you—”

Bertha ignored him and hit *execute*.

The chamber glowed again, the shimmer sweeping over Nicolle in a stronger wave this time. Her form wavered, distorting like a heat mirage, and then… settled.

Gone was Nicolle Taylor.

In her place stood a *new* woman—someone who had *never* been American, who had *never* been a mother, who had *never* been tangled up in the boring, middle-class existence she had once occupied.

Her skin, once lightly tanned, was now a flawless, smooth porcelain, untouched by sun exposure. The contours of her face sharpened, her cheekbones rising subtly, her nose narrowing into something delicate, her eyes shifting into a shape both almond and deeply expressive. Her hair—already black—remained in its intricate *shimada* style, but now, the weight of history settled into every careful pin. She was no longer a woman playing dress-up. She *was* the role.

The chamber’s monitor flickered. *New identity processed.*

> **Name:** Sayuri Takamura
> **Age:** 41
> **Nationality:** Japanese
> **Birthplace:** Kyoto, Japan
> **Occupation:** Retired Geisha, Cultural Consultant

Bertha let out a low whistle. *Damn, I’m good.*

The changes went far beyond appearance. Sayuri had *never* been Nicolle. She had never stepped foot in an American public school, had never slung Tupperware at PTA meetings, had never screeched excitedly in a Target checkout line. She had never married Dennis. *More importantly,* she had never given birth to a daughter named Judy.

The system corrected itself, adjusting reality to compensate. There was no Judy. No frantic mother-daughter fights, no teenage drama, no shared DNA between them. Judy had simply… *ceased to be*. The world had no need for her anymore.

Sayuri remained motionless, unaware of any of it. To her, nothing had changed. She had always been this woman. A lifetime of carefully practiced tradition and discipline was etched into her bones. Her every movement was deliberate, poised, and impossibly graceful.

Dennis, however, felt the full *weight* of what had just happened.

His breath hitched. “Where… where is Judy?”

Bertha’s grin was *positively* wicked as she leaned against the console, crossing one long leg over the other. “Judy who?”

Dennis staggered, gripping the edge of the chamber for support. “She was just—she was just—” His hands clenched. “You *killed* her.”

Bertha scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No, *I* didn’t.” She wiggled her fingers theatrically. “Reality did.” She tilted her head. “Besides, it’s not like Sayuri here ever had a kid. Why would she? She dedicated her life to the arts. To the preservation of tradition. Motherhood isn’t exactly part of that package.”

Dennis’s eyes were wild, darting between Bertha and Sayuri. The new woman stood in serene silence, her hands folded in front of her, waiting. She wasn’t confused, wasn’t disoriented. She wasn’t *Nicolle* desperately trying to piece together an unfamiliar reality.

Because *this* was her reality.

Bertha drummed her fingers against the control panel. “I mean, let’s be real, Dennis. You’re mad, but…” She smirked. “Isn’t this an *upgrade*? Nicolle was a *mess.* And now?” She gestured toward Sayuri with a flourish. “She’s elegant. Refined. *A whole different league.*” Her voice took on a mocking edge. “She would never even look twice at some sweaty little man in a polo.”

Dennis’s breath was ragged, his face going red. “Change her back.”

Bertha made a show of looking at her nails. “Hmmmm. No.”

“Change her *back!*” His voice cracked.

“Can’t.” She turned to him, expression faux-sympathetic. “She’s not *there* to go back to. Nicolle Taylor doesn’t exist anymore. Not in any records, not in anyone’s memories. It’s just *Sayuri* now.” She grinned. “And she’s *so* much better.”

Dennis turned back to Sayuri, shaking, desperate. “Nicolle—please, *please*—tell me you remember me. Tell me you remember Judy.”

Sayuri blinked at him, eyes calm and composed. Then, after a beat, she tilted her head ever so slightly and let out a soft, musical laugh.

“I apologize,” she said in flawless Japanese-accented English. “You must be mistaken. I do not know you.”

Dennis let out something between a sob and a curse.

Bertha barely contained a delighted giggle. *God, this job is fun.*

Sayuri, unfazed by the man’s meltdown, turned her attention to Bertha, dipping into a perfectly executed bow. “Am I to assume the procedure is complete?”

Bertha beamed. “Oh, Sayuri, honey.” She leaned on the console, giving her an exaggerated wink. “You’re *perfect.*”

Sayuri accepted the compliment with effortless grace, inclining her head in silent gratitude.

Dennis, meanwhile, was still trapped in his spiraling horror. “This isn’t real. This *isn’t real!*”

Bertha shrugged. “It *is* for everyone else.”

Dennis stared at Sayuri—this polished, unreadable woman who had *never* been his wife. Who had *never* known him. And worse—who had never *needed* to.

Because Sayuri Takamura had never been his to begin with.

Bertha leaned in close, voice a velvet purr. “Look on the bright side, Dennis.” She tapped his chin playfully. “You got to watch a miracle happen.” She winked. “*Lucky you.*”

Bertha tapped a manicured finger against her bottom lip, watching Dennis flail through his crisis like a fish gasping on a dock. *Pathetic.* He really should have seen this coming.

But something still wasn’t quite right.

Sayuri was *almost* perfect, but the way she spoke—that graceful but unmistakably accented English—still felt *off.* It created a disconnect, a little thread that didn’t fully weave into the reality she had crafted.

Besides, *why* would Sayuri speak English at all? A refined geisha, a master of ancient arts, raised and trained in Kyoto? It made *no* sense. Bertha prided herself on making the changes *seamless,* on sculpting something that felt *inevitable*.

And, honestly? She wanted to have some *real* fun.

With a smirk, she turned back to the console and typed in the next set of changes. This time, she wouldn’t just erase Nicolle’s language—she’d take things further. She scrolled down the settings, found the *age parameters*, and slid the number *way* down.

*Execute.*

The chamber flickered with an eerie golden glow.

Dennis stumbled back, hands gripping the console as if that could somehow stop the inevitable. “Wait—wait—what are you doing?”

Bertha popped her gum, blowing a slow, deliberate bubble before letting it burst. “Fixing the last little *imperfection.*”

Inside the chamber, Sayuri’s body shuddered.

Then, in a moment of terrifying smoothness, she *reversed.*

Her porcelain skin lost its faint signs of maturity—no trace of fine lines or the quiet weight of life’s experiences. Her figure subtly shifted, growing leaner, untouched by the years of adulthood. Her movements, once those of a woman who had spent decades mastering poise, became *youthful*—graceful but lighter, more untouched by time.

When the shimmering energy dissipated, the woman inside was no longer 41-year-old Sayuri Takamura, cultural consultant and retired geisha.

She was a *brand new* Sayuri.

The monitor adjusted itself accordingly:

> **Name:** Sayuri Takamura
> **Age:** 20
> **Nationality:** Japanese
> **Birthplace:** Kyoto, Japan
> **Occupation:** Newly minted Geisha

Dennis sucked in a sharp breath, horror washing over his face in waves. “You—you *made her younger*?”

Bertha stretched luxuriously, looking *entirely* too pleased with herself. “Yep. I mean, come on—41? That’s, like, *ancient* in girl years.” She waved a hand. “Now she’s fresh, new, and just getting started.”

Dennis gripped the console so hard his knuckles turned white. “But she’s supposed to *remember* her life! She—she—”

Bertha waggled a finger at him. “Nuh-uh.” She leaned in, her lips curling in wicked amusement. “She’s never *had* a life outside the *hanamachi*.”

Dennis felt sick. “The what?”

“The geisha district.” Bertha shrugged. “She’s been training since she was a kid. Her whole life has been dedicated to *this*. She’s got no ex-husband. No daughter. No stupid suburban sales job. Just a world of carefully curated beauty, performance, and discipline.”

Dennis turned back to the chamber, chest heaving. “Sayuri—Sayuri, please, tell me you remember me! Tell me you—”

Sayuri blinked. Then, for the first time since the transformation, she *spoke.*

And it was *all* in Japanese.

Her voice was high, soft, but practiced—each syllable carefully measured, elegant, polished. There was no trace of confusion in her tone, no hesitation. She didn’t *struggle* with the language because there was no *other* language for her to struggle with.

She had never spoken English in her life.

Dennis flinched like he’d been struck.

Sayuri, seemingly oblivious to his anguish, straightened her posture, then turned her head slightly to glance around, her expression unreadable. She spoke again, her words flowing with precision and delicacy, but they were utterly foreign to him.

He was *nothing* to her.

Because in this reality, he had *never* existed to her.

Bertha watched Dennis with delight, sipping at the moment like a glass of fine wine. “Oh, this is *so* much better.”

Dennis turned on her, fists clenched. “You *bitch!*”

Bertha rolled her eyes. “Oh, *please*.” She jerked her chin toward Sayuri. “Look at her. *Really* look at her. She’s *stunning.*” She smirked. “And you? You’re just some guy having a *very bad day*.”

Dennis’s breathing turned ragged, his mind spinning. *Judy is gone. Nicolle is gone.* And the woman in front of him, this *Sayuri*, wasn’t just a different person.

She was a different *species* of person.

She wasn’t just a woman he *used* to know.

She was an *untouchable.*

A girl whose entire existence had been shaped by a world so far removed from his own that he may as well have been looking at a character from a film.

Sayuri stepped forward, the silk of her kimono rustling gently, and tilted her head, watching him curiously.

Then, in one smooth motion, she pressed her hands together and offered him the slightest bow.

A formal, polite acknowledgment of his presence.

A gesture of respect—one that meant absolutely *nothing*.

Dennis felt something inside him *crack*.

Bertha let out a delighted hum, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Soooo, Dennis…” She propped her chin in her hand, watching him with cruel amusement. “Still wanna sign up for a membership?”

Bertha tapped her nails against the console, watching Sayuri with a frown.

The girl was *perfect*—or at least, she *should* have been. The delicate silk, the flawless posture, the unreadable, practiced grace. She moved like a painting come to life.

But there was a problem.

Sayuri was a *problem*.

This girl—this beautiful, polished *artifact*—didn’t belong here.

A newly minted twenty-year-old *geisha* was a novelty, sure, but what the hell was she supposed to do *here*? There was no *hanamachi* in the middle of suburban America. There were no teahouses, no patrons waiting for her to pour their sake and entertain them with a performance of *shamisen* and dance. She was trained for a world that *didn’t exist here.*

And that? That was *bad* business.

Clients needed to be *functional* when they walked out of this place. If Sayuri stepped out into the world as she was now, she’d last all of five minutes before ending up in some *PBS documentary about the last remnants of an outdated art form*. She needed to *blend in.*

Bertha sighed dramatically, rolling her shoulders. “Okay. This is *getting* annoying.”

Dennis barely reacted. He was still rooted to the spot, still reeling, his breath coming in shallow, broken bursts.

Bertha, of course, ignored him completely and started typing. “Let’s fix this mess.”

She didn’t *erase* Sayuri. That would be a waste. She just needed… an *update*.

### *Make her American.*
- Born and raised in the U.S.
- Fluent, natural English speaker.
- Culturally American in every way that matters.
- No memory of Japan beyond a vague "family heritage" sentiment.
- Attended public school. Dated. Partied. Watched trash TV.
- Has a perfectly normal social security number, bank account, and phone history.
- No *geisha* background. No formal training. No ties to tradition.

### *New Persona:*
- **Name:** *Sadie Takamura*
- **Age:** *20*
- **Hometown:** *Los Angeles, CA*
- **Occupation:** *Aspiring influencer, occasional barista*
- **Personality Update:** Confident, social, self-absorbed but charming. Knows how to work a crowd.
- **Style:** Trendy, effortlessly chic, deeply Instagrammable.

Bertha smirked and hit *execute*.

The chamber pulsed with a deep golden shimmer.

Dennis let out a strangled noise—half gasp, half sob—but there was nothing he could do.

The transformation rippled through Sayuri like a heatwave bending the air.

Gone was the intricate *shimada*, the delicate silk kimono, the ancient, cultivated grace.

Her dark hair fell into loose, beachy waves, looking suspiciously like a salon blowout. Her makeup, once understated and elegant, sharpened—fluffy laminated brows, full glossy lips, bronzed cheeks. Her once demure posture shifted entirely, her weight tilting to one side with casual confidence.

The kimono warped, the layers unraveling into something distinctly *Western*. A cropped ribbed tank top. High-waisted designer jeans. An oversized zip-up hoodie slouched perfectly off one shoulder. She looked *effortless*—like she had just strolled out of a Venice Beach café, oat milk latte in hand.

Even her accessories morphed—dainty layered gold necklaces, tiny hoops, a sleek Apple Watch. A *Louis Vuitton* tote bag materialized at her feet, stuffed with *AirPods*, a *hydro flask*, and a *laptop covered in aesthetic stickers*.

The final shift came with a faint *click* of reality adjusting itself.

When the glow faded, Sadie Takamura was left standing in the chamber.

Dennis was *shaking*.

Bertha, meanwhile, checked the screen and let out a pleased hum.

“Ohhh, *this* is good,” she muttered to herself.

Sadie blinked a few times, then exhaled sharply like she had just woken up from a nap. Her gaze flicked toward the chamber’s reflective surface, and instantly, she adjusted her hair, smoothing it out.

Then, she *spoke.*

“Ugh, my skin is *so dry* right now,” she muttered, her voice smooth and *painfully* American.

Dennis sucked in a breath, looking *destroyed*. “No,” he whispered.

Sadie frowned slightly, then finally seemed to *notice* him. She tilted her head, confused.

“Wait… who are you?”

Dennis *flinched*.

Bertha *beamed*.

“God, I *nailed* this one,” she said, propping a hip against the console. “Sadie, babe. How do you feel?”

Sadie turned to her, blinking. “I mean, I feel *fine*,” she said, voice dripping with mild disinterest. “Wait, what even *is* this place? I swear to God, I did *not* sign up for some random spa treatment.”

Bertha grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You’re all set.”

Sadie made a *face*, wrinkling her nose like she had just smelled something weird. “Kay, well… can I go? I was supposed to meet up with my girls for brunch, and like, *if I don’t post a pic, did it even happen?*”

Bertha nearly *cackled*.

Dennis looked like he wanted to *die*.

Sadie gave him another confused glance, then turned back to Bertha, lowering her voice. “Wait, seriously, though, why is this guy staring at me like I just ran over his dog?”

Bertha put on her best sympathetic expression. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s just having a *rough morning*.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Okay, same, honestly.” She dug through her bag, pulling out her phone. “I need, like, a *matcha* or something. Do you guys have *matcha*?”

Bertha let out an indulgent sigh. “Not here, babe. But I *bet* there’s a Starbucks, like, five minutes away.”

Sadie *lit up* at that. “Oh, *thank God*.”

Without another word, she slung her tote over her shoulder, tossed her hair over one side, and strutted toward the exit.

Dennis let out a broken noise.

Sadie paused at the door, glancing back. “Oh, also, if you guys *did* do some, like, weird facial treatment thing? *Love it.* My skin’s glowing. Send me your Instagram, I’ll totally tag you.”

Then, with a lazy, effortless smile, she flipped her sunglasses onto her nose and walked out, the door swinging shut behind her.

Dennis was *barely breathing*.

Bertha leaned against the console, crossing one ankle over the other.

“Well,” she drawled, “that went well.”

Dennis turned to her with *murder* in his eyes.

Bertha just grinned.

“Still wanna call me a bitch, *Dennis*?”