Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, tugging once at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was tight, neat. She smoothed her sleeves, checked her cuffs. The lab coat—mandatory—hung crisp over a cream blouse and dark green slacks, the ensemble smartened by a blush-pink belt and gold-tipped flats. Gold studs. A slim watch. Polished, but not flashy. A whisper of fashionista threaded through her—intentional, restrained.

She’d taken the job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial at eighteen. No point finishing high school when the strip-mall satellite of a bigger downtown operation needed staff and didn’t ask questions. The downtown Changegrounds gleamed—glass walls, branded wallscreens, sculptures of “ethical transformation.” This one sat beside a dry cleaner and a payday loan place. But it worked.

They offered one free change. Enough to hook people.

Reality editing was no longer new, but it still felt… disreputable. The kind of thing people whispered about over wine. Still, the technology worked. Crystal shards glowed dimly behind their reinforced panels. Bertha didn’t claim to understand it. She just had to make it sound appealing.

A chime rang.

She rose, tugged her coat, 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?”

Camille raised a hand with casual poise. “That’s us.”

They looked like cousins: a little overlap in the jaw, the cheekbones. Camille was stylish in a low-effort, big-city way—leather jacket, graphic tee, lipstick like lacquer. Nicolle looked more suburban, mid-40s maybe, plain blue blouse and jeans, tote bag on her shoulder.

Bertha nodded. “Thanks for filling out the consent. You’re signed up for a dual calibration. Random bridal tier. No reversals. All agreed?”

“Sure,” Nicolle said. “This is just the touch-up, right? Like right before the ceremony?”

Camille raised an eyebrow. “Is this the one your friend did? She said she looked completely different after.”

Bertha smiled faintly. “We get that a lot.”

She led them down the hallway. Nicolle chattered about parking, her daughter Judy, the church music. Camille stayed mostly silent, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Bertha keyed in the code. The chamber door hissed open.

“Just step in and stand still,” she said. “Calibration will process in seconds.”

Nicolle beamed. Camille gave a theatrical little shrug. They stepped in together.

Bertha sealed the chamber.

Inside the Command Room, she tapped in the override.

RANDOM BRIDAL / DUAL / FREE TRIAL
EXECUTE

The lights dimmed. The crystal slabs pulsed violet. The women blurred.

Then: clarity.

Two brides stood within.

Nicolle—no longer in her forties, no longer a sales associate, no longer a mother—was now eighteen and radiant, still in awe of her own transformation. Her body had reshaped with startling symmetry: a narrow waist, generous bust, hips that curved like sculpture. Her wedding gown was an off-shoulder ballgown of pure white satin, poofy and perfect, cinched at the waist with a pearl-trimmed band. Her veil fell sheer and long down her back. Her updo was pristine, girlish, shellacked into delicate curls. Elbow-length gloves, a modest diamond pendant, and tiny earrings completed the look. Her eyes were wide with excitement, rimmed just slightly too heavily in eyeliner. She stood like someone halfway between a debutante and a dreamer.

Camille, meanwhile, was a vision of sleek confidence. Aged up to forty, her body had subtly matured—full-figured and effortlessly sexy, with an air of practiced control. Her mermaid gown clung tight to her hourglass form, all glittering ivory and suggestive cutouts that exposed the contours of her waist. The plunging neckline was unapologetic. Her bottle-blonde lob fell in a perfect, asymmetric wave past one cheekbone. Her makeup gleamed: smoky lids, glowy skin, a deep wine gloss. She wore a tiara tipped in crystals, a black velvet choker, and bold hoop earrings. She radiated allure like it was a profession.

Both women looked at each other and smiled.

“Cuz!” Nicolle chirped. Her voice was lighter now, high and soft. “You look so glam!”

Camille gave a husky chuckle. “And you, sweetheart, look like a porcelain doll. Steven’s gonna faint.”

“Johnny’ll faint harder,” Nicolle said, giggling.

Bertha watched them silently. She tapped the monitor.

Nicolle Taylor, 18. Engaged to Steven Lerner, 26. Met volunteering. He’s plain, gentle, deeply earnest. She’s delighted to be his bride. Believes she’s here for a cosmetic wedding-day prep—skin tone balancing, hair smoothing, dress finalization. No memory of prior life.

Camille Potts, 40. Engaged to Jonathan “Johnny” Skiles, 43. Semi-famous, charismatic, on his third marriage. She’s captivated, slightly wary but entirely charmed. Thinks she’s here for a final beauty “calibration.” No memory of prior life.

They stood together in the chamber, glowing under the overhead lights.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Nicolle whispered, clutching her gloves. “Everything’s been perfect.”

“You earned it,” Camille said. Her voice was rich, full of heat. “We both did.”

They believed they had always been brides, always destined for these roles. Their histories had been rewritten: different homes, different careers, different stories. Camille remembered Nicolle growing up, doting on her like a baby sister. Nicolle remembered Camille as her glamorous older cousin who dated exciting men and always knew which lipstick shade to steal.

Bertha watched as the two women adjusted their skirts, primped, smiled at the mirror in the chamber wall. The transformation was seamless.

Reality outside had already caught up.

Bertha clicked her pen. “Calibration complete,” she said into the intercom. “You both look stunning. Enjoy your day.”

They waved cheerfully through the glass.