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Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, puckering her glossy lips and fluffing her auburn ponytail for the tenth time that morning. Long, sleek, and impossibly shiny, it cascaded down her back like molten copper—*ugh, so hot*. She giggled, tightening her company-issued lab coat around her slim waist and smoothing the charcoal-gray sheath dress underneath. The dress barely hit mid-thigh—just short enough to keep things *fun*—but the coat? Total *party foul*. The higher-ups made her wear it for “professionalism,” but, like, what was even the point? Professionalism was for people who *had* to prove something. Not for girls with legs that went on forever, a face that belonged on a billboard, and hair so perfect it made shampoo commercials *jealous*.
Eighteen and *so over* high school, Bertha had bailed the second it got boring. She didn’t *do* school. But landing a gig at *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*? *OMG*, best. Decision. Ever. The *real* Changegrounds, that fancy downtown place, was all high-tech and expensive. Here? People got their first taste *free*, and then—boom—they were hooked. The machines, powered by, like, some crystal thingies, could do *anything*—fix looks, tweak personalities, even rewrite memories. Not that Bertha got *how* it worked. Science was, like, *so* not her thing. But sales? *Flirting*? Looking hot *while* doing both? *That*, she could handle.
The front door chimed. Bertha perked up, pouting at her reflection before strutting into the lobby, hips swaying. Her knee-high boots, scuffed but still *super sexy*, clicked against the linoleum as she flashed her most dazzling smile.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she cooed, twirling a pen between her fingers. Clipboard in hand, she scanned the names. Her big, mascara-thickened eyes flicked to the man first. “Dennis and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle, and *maybe* interested in membership?”
Dennis Taylor, a round, slow-moving man stuffed into a pink polo, nodded a little too quickly. Not the *ugh-my-wife-let-herself-go* type—more like the *sweats-too-much-in-air-conditioning* type. “Uh, yeah. A friend of my wife’s was raving about this place, so we figured why not.”
Bertha barely listened. She was already turning to Nicolle—and *whoa*, okay, *yikes*.
Nicolle Taylor was a *hot mess*. Like, *tragic*. Her blouse was this ugly floral nightmare that made her look like a couch, and *why* was she wearing leopard-print leggings? *Pick a pattern, babe.* Bangles jangled obnoxiously with every movement, and these *huge* flamingo earrings swung like wind chimes in a hurricane. Her talon-like neon purple nails were terrifying, and her sandy blonde hair? *Disaster.* Some kind of messy bun thing that just screamed, *I tried, but not really*.
And the *worst* part? *The clogs.*
Lime green. Plastic. Chunky. *Criminal.*
Bertha had to fight the urge to gag.
“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 twitched. God, her voice. *The clogs*. *The earrings.* *Everything.*
“Totally,” Bertha trilled, swishing her ponytail as she led them down the dim hallway. Nicolle *clomped* behind her, chattering away, completely unaware of the *fashion crime scene* she was committing. Dennis followed, already sweating. Bertha’s boots at least made a *proper* click.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha shut the door with a satisfied *hiss*. Then she sauntered across the hall to the Control Room, flopping against the outdated console. She tapped a few buttons—so *not* sleek, but whatever. A profile popped up.
*Nicolle Taylor: 41. Sales. Mom to a 17-year-old daughter, Judy. Married to Dennis for 18 years. Divorced once. Blah, blah, blah.*
Bertha twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. Of *course* Nicolle was a mom. Moms like *her* were *always* like this. Thinking they were quirky and fun when they were just… *embarrassing*. Poor Judy.
Dennis coughed. “So, uh… how does this work, exactly?”
Bertha grinned, lips glossy and perfect. “Easy peasy,” she chirped. “The chamber changes *whatever* you want. Looks, personality, memories—*boom*, done.” She giggled, leaning just enough for the coat to slip open a little. “You’ve got *ten* changes in the trial. We can do ‘em all at once or spread them out. What are you thinking for Nicolle?”
Dennis hesitated, darting a glance at his wife, who was currently flicking her flamingo earrings back and forth. “I mean… she’s beautiful the way she is…”
Bertha *barely* resisted an eye-roll. Men. So predictable.
“Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… ohmigosh, wait, I *know*—what if she was, like, a total *hairdresser*?” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed *execute*.
The chamber shimmered. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, *wow*.
Her messy bun was gone. Instead, her hair was now an exaggerated platinum blonde—fried from bleach, teased to *heaven*, and locked in place with an ungodly amount of hairspray. Her bangs curled dramatically over her forehead, like something straight out of a 90s salon poster.
Her outfit morphed, too. The *horrific* blouse and leggings combo disappeared, replaced with a too-tight tank top that read *Lather, Rinse, Slay* in glittery script and a leopard-print pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her lime green clogs? Now sky-high platform heels, just as tacky, but *on theme*. Her flamingo earrings vanished, replaced by huge gold hoops that swung with each subtle movement. Even her makeup changed—heavy mascara, frosted pink lipstick, and dramatically penciled brows now defined her face. The neon purple nails glittered brighter, sharper, more professionally manicured—no longer random, but deliberate, part of her carefully cultivated style.
But the real kicker? *Her personality.*
Nicolle didn’t speak—just stood there, one hip cocked confidently, inspecting her nails with the casual superiority of someone who knew exactly what they were about. Her mouth curled into a tiny, knowing smirk. It was a look that screamed sass and salon gossip, though she remained utterly silent.
Dennis blinked rapidly, mouth agape. “She, uh… she looks… really different.”
Bertha giggled, twirling her own ponytail. “Oh, *totally*. And she *always* has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s *never* been anything but a hairdresser. You could walk out that door right now, and *bam*, the whole world sees her this way—clients, Judy, even all her new coworkers at the salon. Different career, different coworkers, you know?”
Dennis stared at his wife, whose presence now radiated effortless, intimidating confidence. Nicolle, silent, just raised an eyebrow at him as if waiting impatiently for him to catch up.
Dennis opened his mouth slightly—as if to ask her something—but closed it again.
Bertha laughed softly, kicking up one booted foot behind her. *This* was *so* much fun.
Eighteen and *so over* high school, Bertha had bailed the second it got boring. She didn’t *do* school. But landing a gig at *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*? *OMG*, best. Decision. Ever. The *real* Changegrounds, that fancy downtown place, was all high-tech and expensive. Here? People got their first taste *free*, and then—boom—they were hooked. The machines, powered by, like, some crystal thingies, could do *anything*—fix looks, tweak personalities, even rewrite memories. Not that Bertha got *how* it worked. Science was, like, *so* not her thing. But sales? *Flirting*? Looking hot *while* doing both? *That*, she could handle.
The front door chimed. Bertha perked up, pouting at her reflection before strutting into the lobby, hips swaying. Her knee-high boots, scuffed but still *super sexy*, clicked against the linoleum as she flashed her most dazzling smile.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she cooed, twirling a pen between her fingers. Clipboard in hand, she scanned the names. Her big, mascara-thickened eyes flicked to the man first. “Dennis and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free treatment for Nicolle, and *maybe* interested in membership?”
Dennis Taylor, a round, slow-moving man stuffed into a pink polo, nodded a little too quickly. Not the *ugh-my-wife-let-herself-go* type—more like the *sweats-too-much-in-air-conditioning* type. “Uh, yeah. A friend of my wife’s was raving about this place, so we figured why not.”
Bertha barely listened. She was already turning to Nicolle—and *whoa*, okay, *yikes*.
Nicolle Taylor was a *hot mess*. Like, *tragic*. Her blouse was this ugly floral nightmare that made her look like a couch, and *why* was she wearing leopard-print leggings? *Pick a pattern, babe.* Bangles jangled obnoxiously with every movement, and these *huge* flamingo earrings swung like wind chimes in a hurricane. Her talon-like neon purple nails were terrifying, and her sandy blonde hair? *Disaster.* Some kind of messy bun thing that just screamed, *I tried, but not really*.
And the *worst* part? *The clogs.*
Lime green. Plastic. Chunky. *Criminal.*
Bertha had to fight the urge to gag.
“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 twitched. God, her voice. *The clogs*. *The earrings.* *Everything.*
“Totally,” Bertha trilled, swishing her ponytail as she led them down the dim hallway. Nicolle *clomped* behind her, chattering away, completely unaware of the *fashion crime scene* she was committing. Dennis followed, already sweating. Bertha’s boots at least made a *proper* click.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha shut the door with a satisfied *hiss*. Then she sauntered across the hall to the Control Room, flopping against the outdated console. She tapped a few buttons—so *not* sleek, but whatever. A profile popped up.
*Nicolle Taylor: 41. Sales. Mom to a 17-year-old daughter, Judy. Married to Dennis for 18 years. Divorced once. Blah, blah, blah.*
Bertha twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. Of *course* Nicolle was a mom. Moms like *her* were *always* like this. Thinking they were quirky and fun when they were just… *embarrassing*. Poor Judy.
Dennis coughed. “So, uh… how does this work, exactly?”
Bertha grinned, lips glossy and perfect. “Easy peasy,” she chirped. “The chamber changes *whatever* you want. Looks, personality, memories—*boom*, done.” She giggled, leaning just enough for the coat to slip open a little. “You’ve got *ten* changes in the trial. We can do ‘em all at once or spread them out. What are you thinking for Nicolle?”
Dennis hesitated, darting a glance at his wife, who was currently flicking her flamingo earrings back and forth. “I mean… she’s beautiful the way she is…”
Bertha *barely* resisted an eye-roll. Men. So predictable.
“Let’s start small,” she suggested, already typing. “How about… ohmigosh, wait, I *know*—what if she was, like, a total *hairdresser*?” Before Dennis could respond, she pressed *execute*.
The chamber shimmered. Nicolle froze as a faint ripple passed over her.
When it faded, *wow*.
Her messy bun was gone. Instead, her hair was now an exaggerated platinum blonde—fried from bleach, teased to *heaven*, and locked in place with an ungodly amount of hairspray. Her bangs curled dramatically over her forehead, like something straight out of a 90s salon poster.
Her outfit morphed, too. The *horrific* blouse and leggings combo disappeared, replaced with a too-tight tank top that read *Lather, Rinse, Slay* in glittery script and a leopard-print pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her lime green clogs? Now sky-high platform heels, just as tacky, but *on theme*. Her flamingo earrings vanished, replaced by huge gold hoops that swung with each subtle movement. Even her makeup changed—heavy mascara, frosted pink lipstick, and dramatically penciled brows now defined her face. The neon purple nails glittered brighter, sharper, more professionally manicured—no longer random, but deliberate, part of her carefully cultivated style.
But the real kicker? *Her personality.*
Nicolle didn’t speak—just stood there, one hip cocked confidently, inspecting her nails with the casual superiority of someone who knew exactly what they were about. Her mouth curled into a tiny, knowing smirk. It was a look that screamed sass and salon gossip, though she remained utterly silent.
Dennis blinked rapidly, mouth agape. “She, uh… she looks… really different.”
Bertha giggled, twirling her own ponytail. “Oh, *totally*. And she *always* has. Reality’s adjusted. She’s *never* been anything but a hairdresser. You could walk out that door right now, and *bam*, the whole world sees her this way—clients, Judy, even all her new coworkers at the salon. Different career, different coworkers, you know?”
Dennis stared at his wife, whose presence now radiated effortless, intimidating confidence. Nicolle, silent, just raised an eyebrow at him as if waiting impatiently for him to catch up.
Dennis opened his mouth slightly—as if to ask her something—but closed it again.
Bertha laughed softly, kicking up one booted foot behind her. *This* was *so* much fun.
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