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. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks played off subtle flair—her belt was a skinny blush patent leather, and her flats had a faint sheen, toe-tipped in gold. Gold stud earrings and a slim watch added polish. Not flashy, but considered. A whisper of fashionista threaded through her look, just enough to feel intentional.

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—Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”

The taller of the two women gave a quick nod. “Yes. That’s us.”

Camille was thirty-three, clearly younger than her cousin but dressed with more edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee. She looked around the waiting room with faint amusement, as if half-expecting to find cameras hidden in the potted plants.

Bertha turned 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. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, her heeled boots clicking softly.

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.

Camille peered over Bertha’s shoulder, uninvited. “So… what’s the trick?”

“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.”

Camille cocked a brow. “I told her to try something fun. She’s always in a cardigan. Always.”

Bertha glanced through the available presets. “Sure. Let’s try a style update. Something bold, but playful. Retro flair, bit of a twist. Rockabilly Barbie, say?”

Camille gave a short laugh. “God, yes. She’d never choose that herself.”

Bertha tapped in the command, then hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle remained in place—but she had transformed. Her pale blue shirt and jeans had vanished, replaced by a candy-pink halter dress with white polka dots and a flared skirt that hit mid-thigh. A wide white belt cinched her waist. Her blonde hair was now styled in voluminous curls, teased up with a cherry-red scarf tied into a bow. She wore high platform heels, glossy and dangerous-looking, and her makeup had deepened: winged liner, bright blush, bubblegum lips.

She looked like she was about to climb onto a diner counter and dance to a jukebox.

Even her posture had changed—hips tilted, shoulders back, one hand resting jauntily on her hip. And when she glanced around, the gleam in her eye was unmistakable: mischief, with a wink.

Bertha smiled faintly. “She’s always had this style. Owns three pairs of cat-eye sunglasses. She knows her lipstick shades by name.”

Memories adjusted themselves. Nicolle’s wardrobe had always leaned retro-feminine. She baked pies with apron strings tied tight and listened to rockabilly playlists while curling her hair. Her closet smelled faintly of hairspray and vanilla. Judy had learned how to wing her eyeliner from watching her mom. PTA meetings had never seen so many petticoats.

Camille blinked. “Holy shit.”

Bertha nodded, pleased. “She’s bold now. Likes color. Likes turning heads.”

Nicolle struck a little pose in the chamber, lips pursed, chin tilted down just so. Then she grinned—big and showy, hands on her hips, as though the whole thing delighted her.

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

Camille leaned forward, her eyes still locked on her cousin’s transformation. Nicolle twirled slightly in the chamber, her skirt flaring out like she knew she looked good. The bow in her hair bounced. Her heels clacked sharply when she turned.

Camille gave a low whistle. “Okay, yeah. That’s hilarious. She looks like she walked off the set of a pin-up calendar.”

Bertha said nothing. Just let the moment breathe.

“But,” Camille added, a mischievous lilt in her voice, “can we... soften it a little? I mean, keep the Rockabilly, but give it a little Boho? Like, she still drinks rosé, but now it's in a hammock surrounded by string lights and crystals. You know?”

Bertha turned toward the console, already smiling. “Boho-ify the Barbie,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone. “Got it.”

She keyed in a sequence. The system purred, then blinked in confirmation.

The chamber shimmered again.

The change was subtler this time, but thorough. The pink halter dress softened in texture, its sheen turning matte, the fabric becoming something cottony and flowy. The polka dots gave way to a swirling paisley motif in sun-faded hues—rose, coral, sage. The belt stayed, but now it was braided leather with tassels at the ends, loosely knotted at her waist.

Her voluminous curls relaxed into soft, beachy waves. The cherry-red scarf remained, but it had frayed edges now, a patterned vintage look. Her heels shortened into stacked leather sandals with embroidered straps. Her earrings lengthened into bronze hoops with tiny dangling feathers. On her wrists: bangles in rose gold and wood. Her makeup softened—still bold, but now with sun-warmed tones, peach and terracotta and a glossy lip tint.

And yet—she was still Barbie. Her posture still teased. Her smirk still promised trouble. She looked like she might recite moon signs at brunch and flirt with the waiter while doing it.

“She keeps crystals in her purse,” Bertha said, narrating softly as the system finalized. “Takes her coffee with oat milk, hums 1960s harmonies while picking out perfume. She believes in signs, but not fate. She burns incense before applying mascara.”

Camille’s grin widened. “Yes. That’s it. That’s her.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle—now a sun-kissed, retro-daydream of a woman—turned to the mirrored wall, adjusting one of her bangles with deliberate grace. Then she flashed a peace sign, laughing silently at herself.

“I swear to God,” Camille said, watching her. “Judy is going to have a meltdown.”

Bertha didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Only if she remembers it any other way. But she won’t.”

Camille arched a brow. “That’s… kind of freaky.”

Bertha’s pen tapped lightly against the paper. “It’s reality now. You don’t question gravity. You won’t question this either. Not after a minute or two.”

Camille looked back through the glass, her voice almost reverent. “She looks like she sells candles shaped like ukuleles.”

Bertha made a satisfied note. “And coordinates community craft fairs. You’ve used two changes. Eight left.”

Camille didn’t hesitate. “Let’s keep going.”