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, her tone casual. “Sure. Let’s try a baseline refinement. Something internal. Voice, tone, posture, vocabulary… maturity.” A few more taps. “Let’s say she carries herself more like a professor than a PTA volunteer.”

Dennis blinked. “What does that mean?”

But Bertha had already hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle remained in place—but she was different. Her pale blue shirt had been replaced by a soft gray cashmere sweater, fitted yet reserved. Her jeans were now dark slacks, impeccably creased. She stood with effortless poise, spine straight, her chin lifted just slightly as though accustomed to commanding a room.

Even the way she breathed had changed—measured, unhurried. And when she looked up from her phone, the shift was complete. Her expression was composed, thoughtful. The slightest hint of amusement flickered in her eyes as she took in her surroundings with quiet detachment.

Bertha, watching from the console, smiled faintly. “She’s always been like this. A touch formal. Speaks like she’s considering every word. No wasted gestures.”

Memories rewrote themselves. Nicolle had always worn structured knits and tailored pants. She corrected her daughter’s grammar gently but firmly. She preferred jazz to pop, novels to thrillers. Her sentences were complete. Her jokes, dry. Her laugh was soft and brief, never loud. The sort of woman who brought a book to a barbecue and was beloved for it.

Dennis stared. “She… she looks different.”

“She is different,” Bertha said. “A little older in spirit, maybe. But polished. Like someone who’s known exactly who she is for a long time.”

Dennis swallowed. “She was chatty before.”

“She still is,” Bertha replied. “She’s just… articulate now. You’ll see.”

Across the room, Nicolle tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then returned her attention to her phone. She held it delicately, like a small artifact.

Dennis exhaled.

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

Dennis hesitated, glancing through the glass at his wife. Nicolle now paced with quiet purpose, her phone forgotten in one hand, her eyes following the sterile trim along the chamber wall. She looked, he realized, more like a college dean than a curious suburban mom—elegant, intellectual, even vaguely intimidating.

Bertha tapped her pen against her clipboard, then glanced sideways at Dennis. “Still thinking?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just… she seems really different already.”

“Different’s the point,” Bertha said, then lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “But not unrecognizable. If you want something closer to the surface, we can do that too. Just texture. Not substance.”

Dennis furrowed his brow. “Like what?”

Bertha turned back to the console. “Let’s say she’s always had a taste for—what do they call it—*snug silhouettes.* Still classy. Still her. But she never liked loose clothes. Likes to feel the fit.” Her fingers hovered over the execution key. “This won’t touch who she is. Just what she puts on in the morning.”

Before Dennis could say more, she hit the command.

The chamber shimmered again.

When it cleared, Nicolle remained composed—but the visual contrast was striking. Her gray sweater now hugged her arms and torso, the fabric clinging neatly to her waist and bust, subtle but deliberate. Her slacks had become high-waisted and form-fitting, tailored so precisely they looked poured on. Nothing scandalous, nothing loud—but her clothing was sculpted now, flattering her with an unspoken precision. She looked more expensive than before, more deliberate. Less off-the-rack, more curated.

She didn’t fidget, didn’t tug or adjust. She stood still, comfortable, self-possessed. Her arms crossed lightly, the soft fabric of her sleeves flexing just enough to show the suggestion of muscle tone beneath.

Bertha tilted her head. “She always liked structure. Didn’t like clothes that hung or draped. Thought they made her feel shapeless.” She turned toward Dennis. “She’s always said that. Not out of vanity, exactly—just preference.”

Dennis stared. “She looks like one of those women who orders espresso in Italian.”

“She always has,” Bertha replied, amused.

Memory adjusted again. Brunches with friends, conferences, school board meetings—Nicolle, in tight knits and high-waisted pencil skirts, heels clicking softly, always poised. Always fitted. Not provocative. Just precise.

In her mind, form and function aligned. Clothes weren’t for hiding. They were for shaping. Her daughter, Judy, had grown up thinking her mother was impossibly polished, the kind of woman who made a grocery run in black cigarette pants and a tucked silk blouse.

“Still her,” Bertha said. “Just a different expression of her.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle tapped her chin, then glanced at her reflection in the polished wall. Her lips curved into the faintest smile—pleased, not vain. She pushed up one sleeve slightly, as though checking the fit, then let it fall back into place.

Bertha glanced again at Dennis. “Eight changes left.”

Dennis didn’t answer right away.

But he didn’t say no.

Bertha’s fingers hovered over the console again, her expression as polished as her subject.

“Well,” she said, “shall we make her curious about what’s next?”