Our TG Captionpage 4
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Of course—here’s the continuation, following the established tone and prose. Nicolle now becomes a college professor, and Bertha ensures this doesn’t contradict her neckline preference. The change also shifts her style, and this time, she *is* married to Dennis, and always has been:
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Dennis didn’t answer immediately. He kept looking at Nicolle, as though trying to reconcile what he remembered with what he saw now. She leaned lightly against the side of the chamber, unhurried, her phone still in hand. Her shirt still hung open just enough to be provocative, but her expression was placid, even studious.
Bertha turned her eyes back to the console, fingers already dancing across the interface.
“Let’s give her some new context,” she said, mostly to herself. “Something… grounded.” She selected from a prebuilt matrix and entered a few custom parameters. “Same neckline. Different setting.”
Dennis furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Bertha said as she executed the next change, “your wife is about to become a tenured professor of comparative literature at Western State. And she always has been.”
The chamber shimmered again. It wasn’t flashy—just a clean, pulsing flicker, like heat haze. Nicolle straightened slightly, blinking once. She looked down at her phone again, but the way she held it had changed. One hand now gripped it more deliberately, the thumb scrolling slowly as though reading something complex.
Her outfit had shifted, subtly but meaningfully. The button-down was now a crisp white Oxford—still open at the top, still unreasonably low, the same edge of indecency preserved—but now it was tucked neatly into a long, charcoal-gray skirt with pleats that fell just below the knee. A soft wool cardigan hung from her shoulders, unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to the elbow. The tote was gone. In its place, a well-worn leather satchel rested at her feet. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose, delicate but unmistakable. Her hair remained pulled back, but now with more purpose—tidier, cleaner, a professor’s bun, shot through with just a few streaks of gray that hadn’t been there before.
She still looked good. She just looked like someone who gave lectures on Monday mornings and attended department meetings with coffee in hand.
“Whoa,” Dennis murmured.
Nicolle looked up at him, then at Bertha. “Is this going to take much longer?” she asked, voice calmer now, more measured. “I still need to prep notes for my seminar tonight.”
Dennis blinked. “Seminar?”
She gave him a look. Not annoyed—curious. “The one I teach every Wednesday?” She folded her arms lightly. The shirt shifted just enough to flash more skin. “God, are you okay? You’re acting like you’ve never seen me before.”
Bertha gave a satisfied little hum. “She’s still your wife,” she told Dennis, leaning her elbows on the console. “She always has been. You’ve been married eighteen years. You supported her through her dissertation. Moved here so she could take the job at Western. Judy was born during her third year on the tenure track.”
“And the…” Dennis gestured vaguely at Nicolle’s chest. “That didn’t change?”
“Nope,” Bertha said brightly. “Some things are constant. Even in academia.”
Dennis looked almost dazed now, caught between the old and the new, watching his wife scroll through her phone, muttering something about lecture slides.
Nicolle glanced up again, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I still think this whole process is a little odd,” she said mildly, “but I’ll admit it’s fascinating. How is it made?”
Bertha smiled, noncommittal. “Secret, sorry.”
Nicolle nodded, half to herself, then looked back at Dennis. “We should get lunch on the way home. Maybe that deli you like. I’ve got office hours at three.”
Dennis, slowly, nodded.
Bertha crossed one leg over the other, letting the lab coat shift just enough to show her ankle. “Eight changes left,” she said. “What do you think? Want to keep going?”
---
Dennis didn’t answer immediately. He kept looking at Nicolle, as though trying to reconcile what he remembered with what he saw now. She leaned lightly against the side of the chamber, unhurried, her phone still in hand. Her shirt still hung open just enough to be provocative, but her expression was placid, even studious.
Bertha turned her eyes back to the console, fingers already dancing across the interface.
“Let’s give her some new context,” she said, mostly to herself. “Something… grounded.” She selected from a prebuilt matrix and entered a few custom parameters. “Same neckline. Different setting.”
Dennis furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Bertha said as she executed the next change, “your wife is about to become a tenured professor of comparative literature at Western State. And she always has been.”
The chamber shimmered again. It wasn’t flashy—just a clean, pulsing flicker, like heat haze. Nicolle straightened slightly, blinking once. She looked down at her phone again, but the way she held it had changed. One hand now gripped it more deliberately, the thumb scrolling slowly as though reading something complex.
Her outfit had shifted, subtly but meaningfully. The button-down was now a crisp white Oxford—still open at the top, still unreasonably low, the same edge of indecency preserved—but now it was tucked neatly into a long, charcoal-gray skirt with pleats that fell just below the knee. A soft wool cardigan hung from her shoulders, unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to the elbow. The tote was gone. In its place, a well-worn leather satchel rested at her feet. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose, delicate but unmistakable. Her hair remained pulled back, but now with more purpose—tidier, cleaner, a professor’s bun, shot through with just a few streaks of gray that hadn’t been there before.
She still looked good. She just looked like someone who gave lectures on Monday mornings and attended department meetings with coffee in hand.
“Whoa,” Dennis murmured.
Nicolle looked up at him, then at Bertha. “Is this going to take much longer?” she asked, voice calmer now, more measured. “I still need to prep notes for my seminar tonight.”
Dennis blinked. “Seminar?”
She gave him a look. Not annoyed—curious. “The one I teach every Wednesday?” She folded her arms lightly. The shirt shifted just enough to flash more skin. “God, are you okay? You’re acting like you’ve never seen me before.”
Bertha gave a satisfied little hum. “She’s still your wife,” she told Dennis, leaning her elbows on the console. “She always has been. You’ve been married eighteen years. You supported her through her dissertation. Moved here so she could take the job at Western. Judy was born during her third year on the tenure track.”
“And the…” Dennis gestured vaguely at Nicolle’s chest. “That didn’t change?”
“Nope,” Bertha said brightly. “Some things are constant. Even in academia.”
Dennis looked almost dazed now, caught between the old and the new, watching his wife scroll through her phone, muttering something about lecture slides.
Nicolle glanced up again, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I still think this whole process is a little odd,” she said mildly, “but I’ll admit it’s fascinating. How is it made?”
Bertha smiled, noncommittal. “Secret, sorry.”
Nicolle nodded, half to herself, then looked back at Dennis. “We should get lunch on the way home. Maybe that deli you like. I’ve got office hours at three.”
Dennis, slowly, nodded.
Bertha crossed one leg over the other, letting the lab coat shift just enough to show her ankle. “Eight changes left,” she said. “What do you think? Want to keep going?”
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