Our TG Caption

The day-to-day operations of the lab tended to be mind-numbingly boring, as Jack discovered in the days following their opening. The monotony of managing temperamental equipment and dodging calls from collection agencies was starting to take its toll; in fact, the only respite from the boredom came from the occasional customer who would wander in off the street. They had finally secured their first scheduled appointment, and Jack was eager to impress. The business would continue hemorrhaging money if he didn’t build a decent clientele—and he had been reminded more than once that “brilliant inventor” didn’t necessarily mean “good at marketing.”

Luke and Beatrice arrived right at noon, a perfectly average suburban couple. Middle-aged, a little graying, a touch soft around the edges—comfortable, familiar, not unattractive. The $7,500 payment had already cleared, which meant Jack was more than happy to roll out the red carpet.

“Our neighbors had nothing but good things to say,” Luke said as Jack guided the pair down the hall toward the Testing Chamber. “We figured we’d treat ourselves to something nice, y’know?”

“Luke is always spoiling me,” Beatrice added, giving him a playful tap on the arm.

“Anything for my special lady!” Luke leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Would you like to go first, hun?”

“Of course! Ladies first!” she laughed, stepping into the stark white Treatment Chamber as Jack opened the door.

Inside the adjacent Control Room, Jack was already slipping into his routine. The moment the door sealed shut, he inhaled sharply through his nose, grinning a little too wide. He loved this part. Alternate realities, quantum memory stitching, dimensional anchoring—every word of the spiel tickled his brain like static electricity on wet skin.

“So you can do… anything?”

They all asked it eventually.

Jack considered printing up pamphlets to clarify things, but every time he started designing one, he got distracted drawing increasingly complex diagrams of human consciousness fracturing like shattering glass. Also, secrecy was a plus. The last thing he needed was some agency—governmental or otherwise—sending guys with badges and bad attitudes to poke around.

The ancient control computer wheezed to life with a dissonant hum, like it might implode if provoked. Jack chuckled softly, then turned to look at Luke through the corner of his eye. The man stood stiffly, watching his wife through the reinforced glass, face pinched in quiet calculation.

Jack cracked his knuckles. “How about a little glamour to start?” he offered, fingers already dancing across the keyboard with twitchy precision. “Something classic. Ever wonder what Beatrice would’ve been like if she had been, say… a local celebrity?”

Almost instantly, the woman in the chamber began to change.

Her posture straightened as if she'd spent decades projecting confidence on camera. Her face smoothed slightly—subtle touches, not de-aging, but polished. The minor imperfections were corrected: crow’s feet softened, cheekbones lifted, smile lines reshaped to be camera-friendly. Her clothing shimmered as it shifted, morphing into a sharp, tailored blazer in a striking jewel tone, paired with a matching pencil skirt and tasteful heels. Her expression adjusted, too—pleasant, poised, but with a visible glint of practiced charisma behind the eyes.

But the biggest change—quite literally—was her hair.

Thick auburn curls swelled into a voluminous, sculpted helmet of anchorwoman hair, the kind that defied gravity and never moved unless she wanted it to. It was layered, lacquered, and styled within an inch of its life. The sort of hair that looked like it came with a teleprompter and a 6 PM time slot.

Her memories adjusted with the rest. The long, anonymous career in consulting was overwritten. Beatrice had always been *the* face of Channel 9’s local news—household name, staple of weeknight broadcasts. She’d mastered the art of calm authority, the blend of relatability and poise that kept her audience loyal for nearly two decades. There were Emmys in her past. A few public controversies she’d weathered. A morning spot she’d gracefully declined to preserve family time. And under that cool professionalism, Beatrice took real pride in her work. To her, she’d always been in the business. Journalism was in her blood.

Jack studied Luke with unnerving intensity, like a dog watching a rabbit that hasn’t bolted yet. Luke was still staring, a little slack-jawed, one hand slowly rising to touch his thinning hair. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Beatrice was different—so familiar, and yet… elevated. Like someone he might have watched every night for years but never met. It was the same woman he loved, sure. But now she felt distant, a little more composed. Unreachable.

“Feelings of inadequacy are *so* fun,” Jack said, his smile twitching too wide. “After the change, Beatrice's got the composure of a seasoned broadcaster and the hair volume of a small lion. She’s got presence. You’ll adjust. Or you won’t. Reality’s like that.”

Luke chuckled uncertainly, rubbing his belly. “Yeah… yeah, maybe it won’t be so bad once I get my turn.”

“You can swap places with your wife whenever you’re ready,” Jack said, fingers already poised over the cool-down sequence like a pianist about to dive into Rachmaninoff.

“Hold on.”

Jack froze, head snapping up with just a little too much speed.

Luke was shifting his weight back and forth, clearly wrestling with something. Jack had seen it before—clients suddenly confronted with the realness of change, the sudden understanding that the limits weren’t where they thought they were.

Luke sighed. “I think I’d like to change something else.”