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**The Changegrounds: Free Trial**
Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged control panel, tilting her head just enough to catch the perfect angle of her jawline. Her auburn ponytail—long, sleek, and impossibly glossy—swung like a metronome with every small motion. She smirked, adjusting the cuffs of her pristine, custom-tailored lab coat. The higher-ups insisted on professionalism, but she made it work. Beneath the coat, she wore an ivory silk blouse, tucked flawlessly into a pair of high-waisted, wide-leg trousers in the deepest shade of emerald. Expensive-looking, but smartly thrifted. Gold hoops, a delicate chain bracelet, and a pair of sleek stilettos in obsidian patent leather completed the look. She didn’t just present herself well. She was the standard.
Eighteen for barely six months, Bertha had left high school the moment it got boring. Landing a gig at *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*—a dingy, suburban ripoff of the real deal—was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The real Changegrounds, downtown, catered to the elite, charging fortunes for reality-warping transformations. Here? The first hit was free, bait for future customers. The machines, powered by some weird crystal shards, could do *anything*—fix appearances, rewrite personalities, swap memories like trading cards. Bertha didn’t understand the science, nor did she care. Science was for nerds. She was in sales. And if she could play the clients and the machine while looking *this* good? That was all that mattered.
A sharp beep from the front entrance pulled her from her reverie. With a slow, deliberate sigh, she stood, smoothing her blouse to maintain the perfect silhouette, and strode into the lobby. The rhythmic *click-click-click* of her stilettos against linoleum was a symphony of authority.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she purred, eyes already skimming the clipboard. Her gaze flicked to the man first. *God, he’s unfortunate-looking.* “Dennis and Nicolle Taylor, here for a complimentary transformation for Nicolle?”
Dennis Taylor, a round, slow-moving man stuffed into a pink polo, blinked like he hadn’t been expecting attention. “Uh, yeah. A friend of my wife’s was raving about this place, so we figured why not.”
Bertha barely listened. She had already turned to Nicolle—and immediately had to suppress a *shudder.*
Nicolle Taylor was a walking crime scene. A grotesque floral blouse clashed violently with leopard-print leggings, each pattern screaming for dominance. Bangles jangled obnoxiously, massive flamingo earrings swung like wrecking balls, and her neon purple nails were practically *weapons.* Her sandy blonde hair was a rat’s nest of half-hearted curls, and worst of all? The clogs. *Chunky. Plastic. Lime green.*
Bertha’s smile thinned. *Kill it with fire.*
“This place is so cute!” Nicolle shrieked, voice bouncing off every available surface. “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 inhaled through her nose, suppressing a grimace. “That’s right,” she said smoothly, guiding them down the dim hallway. Nicolle chattered the whole way, clogs *clomping* like hooves. Dennis trailed behind, already sweating. Bertha’s heels, at least, made a proper, authoritative *click.*
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha sealed the door with a satisfied hiss and sauntered across the hall to the Command Room. She leaned against the outdated console, flicking the system online with a few taps. The real Changegrounds had sleek, cutting-edge interfaces. Here? They used ancient tech held together by duct tape and sheer audacity.
Nicolle’s profile popped up on-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. Moms like her always thought they were “quirky.” They were not. They were *embarrassing.* Poor Judy.
Dennis shifted awkwardly. “So, uh… how does this work, exactly?”
Bertha milked the pause. “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 step by step.” She tilted her head, gaze sly. “How about we start with something fun?”
Dennis hesitated, eyes darting to Nicolle. “I mean… she’s beautiful the way she is…”
Bertha rolled her eyes. *Spineless.* “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “Let’s make her a total bitch.”
Before anyone could react, she pressed **EXECUTE.**
A pulse of energy shimmered through the chamber. Nicolle gasped, clutching her chest as the first wave of changes hit.
Her *voice* changed first. That shrill, insufferable lilt dropped into something cool, detached—words rolling off her tongue with slow, deliberate sharpness.
Then her *posture* shifted. The loose, jittery energy drained from her body as she straightened, one hip cocked, arms folding across her chest with effortless arrogance.
Her *face* sharpened—soft edges giving way to high cheekbones and a faintly dangerous smirk. Her makeup reassembled itself, the neon lip gloss vanishing into a rich, velvety red. Thick lashes curled upwards, eyeliner winged to perfection, brows sculpted into precise, imperious arches.
Her *hair* rippled into sleek, polished waves, brushing just past her shoulders, a deep caramel blonde that looked effortlessly expensive.
The *clothes* reformed next. The floral catastrophe vanished, replaced by a tight, high-necked black bodysuit and a fitted blazer with gold accents. Her leggings melted into tailored leather pants, the kind that screamed *money and menace.* The flamingo earrings vanished, replaced by subtle gold studs, while her bangles reformed into a sleek designer watch.
Finally, her *shoes.* The clogs *disintegrated,* dissolving into the void where they belonged. In their place, glossy black stilettos materialized—pointed, razor-sharp. The kind of heels that could puncture an ego.
The change settled.
Nicolle inhaled slowly, then exhaled through her nose, like someone mildly unimpressed by their surroundings. Her gaze swept the room, assessing, dismissing, uninterested. She flicked her wrist, checking her watch. “Jesus, this took long enough.”
Dennis gawked. “N-Nicolle?”
She barely looked at him. “*It’s Nikki,*” she corrected coolly.
Bertha *laughed.* Actually *laughed.* This was better than she had hoped.
Dennis, meanwhile, looked seconds away from a breakdown. “You—this—what the *hell* just happened?”
Bertha leaned in, just enough to be infuriating. “Reality adjusted,” she murmured. “She was never your wife. Never your *anything*, actually. Just Nikki—self-made, ruthless, effortlessly *above* you. And technically?” She smirked. “She never wasn’t.”
Dennis made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a squeak.
Nikki, unfazed, pulled out her phone and tapped through her notifications, radiating *cool indifference.*
Bertha smirked.
God, she loved this job.
Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged control panel, tilting her head just enough to catch the perfect angle of her jawline. Her auburn ponytail—long, sleek, and impossibly glossy—swung like a metronome with every small motion. She smirked, adjusting the cuffs of her pristine, custom-tailored lab coat. The higher-ups insisted on professionalism, but she made it work. Beneath the coat, she wore an ivory silk blouse, tucked flawlessly into a pair of high-waisted, wide-leg trousers in the deepest shade of emerald. Expensive-looking, but smartly thrifted. Gold hoops, a delicate chain bracelet, and a pair of sleek stilettos in obsidian patent leather completed the look. She didn’t just present herself well. She was the standard.
Eighteen for barely six months, Bertha had left high school the moment it got boring. Landing a gig at *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*—a dingy, suburban ripoff of the real deal—was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The real Changegrounds, downtown, catered to the elite, charging fortunes for reality-warping transformations. Here? The first hit was free, bait for future customers. The machines, powered by some weird crystal shards, could do *anything*—fix appearances, rewrite personalities, swap memories like trading cards. Bertha didn’t understand the science, nor did she care. Science was for nerds. She was in sales. And if she could play the clients and the machine while looking *this* good? That was all that mattered.
A sharp beep from the front entrance pulled her from her reverie. With a slow, deliberate sigh, she stood, smoothing her blouse to maintain the perfect silhouette, and strode into the lobby. The rhythmic *click-click-click* of her stilettos against linoleum was a symphony of authority.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she purred, eyes already skimming the clipboard. Her gaze flicked to the man first. *God, he’s unfortunate-looking.* “Dennis and Nicolle Taylor, here for a complimentary transformation for Nicolle?”
Dennis Taylor, a round, slow-moving man stuffed into a pink polo, blinked like he hadn’t been expecting attention. “Uh, yeah. A friend of my wife’s was raving about this place, so we figured why not.”
Bertha barely listened. She had already turned to Nicolle—and immediately had to suppress a *shudder.*
Nicolle Taylor was a walking crime scene. A grotesque floral blouse clashed violently with leopard-print leggings, each pattern screaming for dominance. Bangles jangled obnoxiously, massive flamingo earrings swung like wrecking balls, and her neon purple nails were practically *weapons.* Her sandy blonde hair was a rat’s nest of half-hearted curls, and worst of all? The clogs. *Chunky. Plastic. Lime green.*
Bertha’s smile thinned. *Kill it with fire.*
“This place is so cute!” Nicolle shrieked, voice bouncing off every available surface. “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 inhaled through her nose, suppressing a grimace. “That’s right,” she said smoothly, guiding them down the dim hallway. Nicolle chattered the whole way, clogs *clomping* like hooves. Dennis trailed behind, already sweating. Bertha’s heels, at least, made a proper, authoritative *click.*
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha sealed the door with a satisfied hiss and sauntered across the hall to the Command Room. She leaned against the outdated console, flicking the system online with a few taps. The real Changegrounds had sleek, cutting-edge interfaces. Here? They used ancient tech held together by duct tape and sheer audacity.
Nicolle’s profile popped up on-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. Moms like her always thought they were “quirky.” They were not. They were *embarrassing.* Poor Judy.
Dennis shifted awkwardly. “So, uh… how does this work, exactly?”
Bertha milked the pause. “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 step by step.” She tilted her head, gaze sly. “How about we start with something fun?”
Dennis hesitated, eyes darting to Nicolle. “I mean… she’s beautiful the way she is…”
Bertha rolled her eyes. *Spineless.* “Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “Let’s make her a total bitch.”
Before anyone could react, she pressed **EXECUTE.**
A pulse of energy shimmered through the chamber. Nicolle gasped, clutching her chest as the first wave of changes hit.
Her *voice* changed first. That shrill, insufferable lilt dropped into something cool, detached—words rolling off her tongue with slow, deliberate sharpness.
Then her *posture* shifted. The loose, jittery energy drained from her body as she straightened, one hip cocked, arms folding across her chest with effortless arrogance.
Her *face* sharpened—soft edges giving way to high cheekbones and a faintly dangerous smirk. Her makeup reassembled itself, the neon lip gloss vanishing into a rich, velvety red. Thick lashes curled upwards, eyeliner winged to perfection, brows sculpted into precise, imperious arches.
Her *hair* rippled into sleek, polished waves, brushing just past her shoulders, a deep caramel blonde that looked effortlessly expensive.
The *clothes* reformed next. The floral catastrophe vanished, replaced by a tight, high-necked black bodysuit and a fitted blazer with gold accents. Her leggings melted into tailored leather pants, the kind that screamed *money and menace.* The flamingo earrings vanished, replaced by subtle gold studs, while her bangles reformed into a sleek designer watch.
Finally, her *shoes.* The clogs *disintegrated,* dissolving into the void where they belonged. In their place, glossy black stilettos materialized—pointed, razor-sharp. The kind of heels that could puncture an ego.
The change settled.
Nicolle inhaled slowly, then exhaled through her nose, like someone mildly unimpressed by their surroundings. Her gaze swept the room, assessing, dismissing, uninterested. She flicked her wrist, checking her watch. “Jesus, this took long enough.”
Dennis gawked. “N-Nicolle?”
She barely looked at him. “*It’s Nikki,*” she corrected coolly.
Bertha *laughed.* Actually *laughed.* This was better than she had hoped.
Dennis, meanwhile, looked seconds away from a breakdown. “You—this—what the *hell* just happened?”
Bertha leaned in, just enough to be infuriating. “Reality adjusted,” she murmured. “She was never your wife. Never your *anything*, actually. Just Nikki—self-made, ruthless, effortlessly *above* you. And technically?” She smirked. “She never wasn’t.”
Dennis made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a squeak.
Nikki, unfazed, pulled out her phone and tapped through her notifications, radiating *cool indifference.*
Bertha smirked.
God, she loved this job.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!