Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was neat, pulled back tight, and she gave it a once-over before smoothing her sleeves. Her lab coat—mandatory—was clean and fitted well enough to suggest an eye for detail. Underneath, she wore a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks that managed to look more expensive than they were. Gold stud earrings and a plain watch added just enough polish. Her shoes were pointed flats—easier on her feet, but still sharp.

At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She didn’t see the point in finishing when she’d already landed a job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a small, suburban branch of a much bigger operation downtown. The real Changegrounds was all glass walls and designer branding. This one was tucked into a forgettable strip mall next to a dry cleaner. But it worked. They offered free one-time alterations, the bait for customers who might return for something permanent. Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it was still mysterious—powered by odd-looking crystal shards sealed behind thick panels.

Bertha didn’t claim to understand how it all worked. She just had to make it sound appealing.

A chime rang from the front. She stood, adjusted her coat again, and stepped into the waiting room.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Let me check—Dennis and Nicolle Taylor?”

Dennis, a stocky man in his forties, gave a sheepish nod. He wore beige slacks and a salmon polo, slightly wrinkled. “Yeah. My wife’s friend recommended this place. We’re just… curious.”

Bertha turned her attention to Nicolle. Mid-forties, modestly dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her hair was blonde, shoulder-length, pulled back with a clip. She wore minimal makeup. A tote bag hung from one shoulder, jangling slightly with every step.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, her voice easygoing, a little too loud. “I mean, if it can really do what my friend said it can do, that’s wild. She said she felt like a different person after.”

Bertha offered a brief smile and led them down the corridor. The hallway lights flickered overhead. Nicolle chatted as they walked—about her daughter, about how weird the strip mall parking lot was. Dennis mostly stayed quiet, hands in his pockets.

Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured for Nicolle to step inside the chamber and closed the door behind her. Across the hall, in the Command Room, she brought the system online. The monitors flickered to life. Nicolle’s profile loaded: forty-one, works in sales, one daughter—seventeen, named Judy. Married eighteen years. Pretty average.

Dennis shifted his weight beside her. “So… how does it start?”

“Trial gives you ten free changes,” Bertha said. “You can use as many or as few as you like. Looks, personality, behavior, even memories. They all hold as long as she’s inside the chamber. Once she’s out, they become permanent unless overwritten.”

Dennis nodded. “I don’t want anything drastic. Maybe just something subtle.”

Bertha tilted her head. She tapped a few commands, half-listening. “Sure. How about this—just a small style adjustment. Let’s say…” She tapped again. “Her shirts. She’s always worn them open. Like, really open.”

Dennis blinked. “Sorry, what?”

But Bertha had already hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle still wore the same pale blue button-down—but it now gaped at the top, the top four buttons left casually undone. The neckline plunged deeper than it had any right to, revealing the soft inner curves of her breasts in a way that suggested a bra had never been part of the ensemble. The shirt held—barely—but it left the barest whisper of distance between exposure and modesty. A shift of posture, a lean too far forward, and the rest would follow.

She stood at ease, completely unselfconscious. She wasn’t flaunting anything. This was normal for her—comfortable.

Bertha, watching from the console, smiled faintly. “She always liked a little neckline. More than a little, really. Some people are just that way.”

Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had always left her tops open like that. She’d worn low necklines to brunches, to office meetings, to school functions. Not for attention. Not to make a statement. It was simply how she dressed. The sort of habit that started in her twenties and never quite left.

Dennis stared. “She’s not wearing a bra.”

“Hasn’t in years,” Bertha said. “Not really her thing.”

He blinked again, trying to process it. “That’s… a lot.”

“She’s always been this way,” Bertha said lightly. “Everyone she knows remembers her like this. Except you. You get the full effect.”

Across the room, Nicolle adjusted the strap of her tote, which only deepened the neckline’s plunge. She kept scrolling on her phone, absorbed.

Dennis exhaled, slowly.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard. “Nine changes left,” she said. “Want to keep going?”