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. Sleek, impossibly shiny, it tumbled down her back like molten copper. Her reflection smirked. The Changegrounds: Free Trial might’ve been a dim little knockoff in the suburbs, but she dressed like she was running the flagship downtown.

The front door beeped. She slipped into the lobby, heels sharp on the linoleum. “Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said with a silky smile.

Dennis and Nicolle Taylor stood blinking in the fluorescent light.

Dennis looked like a meatball in a too-tight polo. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “A friend of my wife’s told us about it…”

Bertha turned to Nicolle.

God help us all.

The woman was a monument to bad decisions. Her floral blouse looked yanked from a motel couch. Her leggings—leopard print, mercilessly stretched—did her no favors. Bangles clattered on both wrists, her nails were violent purple claws, and she had flamingo earrings the size of toddler toys. Her hair, a frizzed halo of sandy blonde, was gathered into a bun that looked more like a failed meringue.

Bertha ushered them into the Alteration Room without comment. Her heels sang authority. Nicolle’s clogs clomped like hooves.

The chamber door hissed shut.

Dennis shifted beside her at the old control console. “So… how’s it work?”

Bertha smiled, predatory. “You’ve got ten free changes. Anything you want. I’ll start small.” Her fingers danced across the keyboard. **COOLER**, she typed. Just that. Then: EXECUTE.

The chamber’s crystal core glowed. A low hum deepened into a bass thrum. The air shimmered, thickening with invisible pressure. Nicolle blinked. Her earrings began to twitch.

Then, everything changed.

---

It began with her earrings. The garish pink flamingos warped, metal melting in slow motion. Their necks curled, shrank, condensed into tiny golden hoops, gleaming like they’d been forged in a Paris atelier. Her bangles clinked once—then crumpled, collapsing into a single, slim bracelet of hammered gold. Her monstrous purple nails retracted, inch by inch, like claws sinking into flesh, until they were a tasteful almond shape, painted with a glossy, translucent nude.

Her blouse dissolved. The fabric unraveled in threads of garish polyester, falling like wilted petals. Beneath, something darker and sleeker emerged—a black silk camisole, thin-strapped and sculpted to the lines of her body. Her leggings flickered, then rippled with the sound of tearing paper. In their place: black jeans, perfectly cut, high-waisted, hugging her in all the right ways. Her clogs split at the seams, the lime green plastic sagging like deflated balloons before resolving into black leather ankle boots, pointed-toe and polished to a glassy shine.

Her posture changed next.

Her shoulders rolled back as if an invisible hand had nudged them into place. The slouch of someone used to apologizing for her presence straightened into the grace of someone who *commanded* a room. Her hips shifted—not widened or narrowed, but aligned with intention, each curve now poised, elegant. Her neck extended a fraction, chin lifting, lips parting slightly—not dumbly, not nervously, but with a soft, effortless confidence.

Then her hair.

It unraveled from the slapdash bun in delicate waves. Stray strands lifted and drifted, drawn into place by unseen hands. The color deepened, brightened—sandy blonde giving way to a cooler champagne, shot through with subtle lowlights. Loose waves cascaded past her shoulders, the kind of artful mess that took three products and a stylist to achieve. It framed her face like it had always belonged there.

Her makeup surfaced slowly, like something remembered. Bare skin shimmered with a satin glow. Her cheekbones rose—not through surgery or sorcery, but as if her face simply remembered a better version of itself. A sweep of highlighter caught the light. Her eyes flicked upward as eyeliner formed with precise, feline sharpness. Her lips plumped ever so slightly, color bleeding in as if from within—an elegant matte nude with just a hint of gloss at the center.

Inside her skull, a tectonic shift.

Memories snapped like old rubber bands. Gone were PTA meetings in kitschy sweaters. Gone were yoga classes she hated, Tupperware parties, getting wine-drunk on boxed Chardonnay. She had never married Dennis. They had a kid—sure. A sweet, artsy daughter named Judy. But she’d always been the cool mom. The kind who had a favorite DJ. The kind who knew the name of the bartender and never needed a menu.

Her speech patterns changed without a word.

Gone was the high-pitched babble, the need to fill silence with sound. Her breathing slowed, deeper. Her gaze settled—not wide-eyed, but amused. Knowing. Measured.

A text buzzed on her phone. She glanced down and unlocked it with a lazy flick. She smiled faintly. Nothing unusual here.

Bertha leaned back against the console, admiring her work.

Dennis looked gutted.

“I—what just—” He pointed helplessly. “She looks like—like—”

“Like Nicolle,” Bertha purred. “The real one. The one who never needed your advice on clothes. Or anything.”

Dennis turned toward Nicolle. “Do… do you remember me?”

She looked up from her phone, blinking once.

“Oh. Hey, Dennis.” Her voice was lower now, mellower, like slow jazz and candlelight. “Didn’t know you were stopping by today.”

She didn’t look confused. Or unkind. Just politely distant. As if he were someone she’d once shared a Lyft with.

Dennis swayed. “But we—we were married.”

She smiled gently. “No, hon. That wasn’t us.”

Bertha bit back a laugh. Her lab coat slipped open just enough to catch Dennis’s eye. “Better take a seat,” she said sweetly. “We’ve got nine changes left.”

Dennis sat. He looked like he might cry.

Nicolle crossed her legs, boots gleaming. She resumed scrolling.

Bertha tapped the console, eyes gleaming.

Showtime.