Our TG Caption

Certainly. Here's a rewritten version that retains the central narrative, but trims setup and dialogue to focus on **vivid, excruciatingly detailed transformation** of Nicolle—both physical and mental:

---

Bertha Dreessen barely registered Dennis Taylor’s fumbling words. Her long copper ponytail shimmered beneath the fluorescents as she leaned against the console, fingers flying across the keys. Nicolle Taylor—age forty-one, sales rep, mother of one, disaster of a human aesthetic—stood clueless in the Alteration Chamber beyond the glass, chattering to herself about sangria and earrings. Dennis hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, as though unsure he was allowed to want more.

Bertha didn’t wait. She entered the command: `Change #1: Nicolle is just… cooler.`
And pressed **Execute**.

The chamber hummed, the air around Nicolle thickening like syrup. The overhead light flickered, once, then held steady.

Nicolle’s body stiffened.

Her limbs jerked subtly, first in confusion, then in submission, as the machine began its invisible work. Her pupils dilated wide, then pinpricked, her breath catching—held—and then released with a slow, trembling exhale.

Her **bones cracked first**, imperceptible to the eye but thunderous within her body. Shoulders rolled back with a sudden snap, collarbones sharpening, as her posture corrected like a pulled string. Her spine seemed to stretch an inch as decades of slouch fell away. Her hips shifted minutely, not widening or narrowing, but adjusting: confident, natural, feline.

Then, her **flesh began to melt and reknit**.

The dimpled softness beneath her arms retracted into sleek tone. Cellulite smoothed over with the quiet grace of receding tide. Her thighs recontoured themselves—rounded but firm, athletic but feminine. Her stomach, once padded from years of brunches and bloat, flattened into an enviable, Pilates-sculpted plane. Breasts lifted subtly, gaining symmetrical poise without losing maturity. Her neck elongated slightly, swan-like, regal.

Her **clothing** responded like fabric caught in a cinematic fire. The garish floral blouse with its stretched seams crumbled into mist, dissolving midair. From her shoulders downward, **black leather** licked into existence—sleeves of a fitted moto jacket wrapping snug to her arms, with buttery-smooth finish and gleaming gold zippers. A cropped silk camisole blossomed beneath, deep olive in color, hugging her now-toned torso. Her leggings shrank and retextured into high-waisted black denim that molded to her new silhouette like memory foam—tight, confident, casual-chic.

**Clogs exploded** into brief green sparks as they split apart. In their place, ankle boots of matte leather and elegant structure formed, the kind worn by women who didn’t run but always arrived first.

Then came the **accessories**.

The flamingo earrings unraveled into thin gold hoops that glinted like coins in candlelight. The bangles vanished altogether, replaced by a single, clean-lined watch that looked plucked from a minimalist art museum. A whisper of chain curled around her collarbone, suspending a paper-thin disc. Her nails pulsed once—purple flashing white—before hardening into a pale almond nude, perfectly shaped.

Her **hair trembled**.

The bun unraveled itself as if embarrassed, every strand detangling, thickening, polishing. The dull blonde brightened by degrees, darkening subtly into a richer wheat tone, then gaining glints of honey and molasses. Locks fell in waves, parting slightly to frame her face, bouncing like they had been blow-dried moments ago.

Her **face followed**.

Brows lifted into perfect arches, symmetrical and expressive. Her cheekbones carved themselves upward, sharp but not severe. Freckles faded, skin tone evened into luminous warmth. A golden highlighter shimmered across her cheekbones. Her eyes adjusted: lashes darkened, thickened, fanned. A thin, surgical line of black eyeliner slid outward into sharp wings. Her lips swelled just slightly—not vulgar, but sultry—then filled with a satin nude gloss.

Finally, the **mind** began its turn.

It started behind the eyes.

Nicolle blinked once—twice. Her pupils flickered like old film as thousands of neural connections re-ordered themselves. Years of late-night Target runs and PTA bake sales collapsed in on themselves. Her daughter Judy’s memories of an overbearing, over-accessorized mom were quietly replaced. In their place: gallery openings, weekend record fairs, a taste in film that stopped at the edge of pretension. Nicolle remembered her vinyl collection. She remembered nights of mezcal in candlelit lounges. She remembered never once being caught in leopard print. She remembered being cool.

Language shifted next. The part of her brain that once said “O-M-G, babe!” now filtered every word through cool detachment. Humor became drier. Volume turned down. Posture finished adjusting as if in time with this final calibration.

And then, the machine powered down.

Nicolle rolled her shoulder slowly, glancing down at her outfit with casual acknowledgment. A flash of subtle pride flickered in her now-steady gaze. She pulled out her phone—sleek, thin, with a minimalist leather case—and thumbed through it.

She did not look at Dennis.

Dennis, poor man, was pale, sweating. “What… what just happened?”

Bertha smiled with all the smug precision of a cat unbothered by the broken vase.

“Reality,” she said, “caught up.”

Nicolle crossed one leg over the other with elegant ease. She didn’t speak.
She didn’t have to.