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, 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 interesting—but the coat was a total buzzkill. The higher-ups insisted on it for “professionalism.” Professionalism? Please. That was something women without legs for days, a face that could stop traffic, and hair straight out of a shampoo commercial had to worry about.

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 tease a hint of décolletage, and strutted into the lobby. Her knee-high boots, scuffed but still sexy, 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 boots, 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… she’s one of those real estate sharks? You know the type. High-end clients, designer blazers, sells million-dollar homes to desperate divorcées. Makes a *killing* off them.” 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.

Her ridiculous outfit had vanished, replaced by a pristine white blazer with a plunging neckline—worn, notably, with *nothing* underneath but a strategically placed gold pendant that drew the eye. It was quite clear she hadn’t even considered a blouse. Slim, pressed designer slacks hugged her now noticeably trimmer legs, her figure refined into the toned, sculpted build of a woman who spent plenty of time in pilates studios. The clogs were gone, replaced by sleek nude pumps. Her bangles—once tacky, neon things—were now delicate gold cuffs, subtle and expensive. Her garish, overlong nails had shrunk into a refined almond shape, now coated in a glossy nude polish.

Her flamingo earrings had vanished, replaced with understated gold studs. Her hair, now in a sleek, artfully tousled bob, framed a face suddenly touched with just the right amount of makeup—polished, professional, but effortlessly sexy. Even her skin had taken on a golden, sun-kissed glow, perfectly bronzed and radiant.

She exuded money. Ambition. Confidence. The kind of woman who could sell a penthouse with a single wink and a knowing smirk.

Dennis let out a strangled noise. His whole body went rigid. “What the hell?”

Bertha leaned in, her lab coat slipping just enough to be distracting. “Oh, totally. And she always has. Reality’s adjusted. Nicolle Taylor, real estate queen, practically a *shark* in the housing market.” She tapped the screen, scrolling through Nicolle’s revised bio. “Oh, this is good. She specializes in selling luxury homes to newly single men—especially the ones trying to prove something after a messy divorce.”

Dennis looked like he might faint. “She—she would *never*—”

“She *always* has,” Bertha corrected smoothly. “Check this out—she’s *ruthless*. Has a reputation for making men fall over themselves to overpay. Makes *bank* off their egos. Oh, and she *never* takes on married clients. Too much baggage.”

Dennis gawked at Nicolle, who—utterly unaware of any change—was now scrolling through her phone. That had changed too—her outdated, cracked-screen model replaced with the latest, biggest device money could buy.

“I *love* this place,” she murmured, barely paying attention to them. “We could really market these transformations. Bertha, have you considered franchising?”

Dennis’s mouth fell open. He looked at Bertha in desperation. “How do I—how do we—*fix* this?”

Bertha smirked. “Oh, Dennis.” She tapped her nails against the console. “Why would you *want* to?”