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. “That’s us.”

Camille was twenty-three, lean and pretty in a sharp way, with a practiced cool that came naturally. She wore dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee that read *SERVICE WITH A SMIRK*. Her nose ring caught the fluorescent light. 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 curious,” Nicolle said, her voice friendly but measured. “I heard it’s… powerful. That it really works. I figured, why not?”

Bertha offered a brief smile and led them down the corridor. The hallway lights flickered overhead. Nicolle chatted as they walked—about her daughter Judy, seventeen, 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—Judy. Married eighteen years. Widowed last fall. Pretty average.

Camille peered over Bertha’s shoulder, uninvited. “So… this thing can really rewrite someone?”

“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 tapped the screen lightly. “She’s so buttoned-up. All rules, all curfews, all judgment.”

Bertha tilted her head. “You’d prefer… the opposite?”

Camille grinned. “Not just opposite. Let’s go wild. Something totally unexpected. Make her someone… impossible.”

Bertha scrolled through preset clusters, then paused at one. “This file’s unusual. Hyper-physical, ultrafeminine athlete profile. From Russia. Wrestler class, high discipline, high aggression, public figure. Non-English primary language.” She looked at Camille. “That kind of impossible?”

Camille’s eyebrows shot up. A laugh slipped out. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. Do it.”

Bertha tapped the command, then hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle was gone. In her place stood a towering woman, broad-shouldered yet strikingly feminine, clad in a skin-tight crimson singlet trimmed with gold. Her blonde hair had thickened, lightened, and was styled in braids laced with ribbons. Her muscles flexed effortlessly as she shifted her stance, a force contained in human form. Heavy boots laced to the knee grounded her. Dark eyeliner sharpened her gaze.

The monitors flickered, rewriting themselves: **Nikolya Taylova. Age forty-one. Professional wrestler, born Moscow. Ultrafeminine public persona; signature style incorporates couture flair in the ring. Known for strength, spectacle, and charm. Primary language: Russian.**

Inside the chamber, the woman tilted her head, then spoke in rapid-fire Russian, her accent heavy, melodic, and incomprehensible to Bertha’s ears.

But Camille—no, not Camille anymore—stepped forward with practiced calm. Her name tag read *Assistant/Translator: Camille Potts.* She didn’t look surprised. Instead, she responded smoothly in Russian, then turned back to Bertha.

“She’s asking where the audience is,” Camille said matter-of-factly. “She thinks this is a warmup before a show.”

Bertha blinked at the monitors. The ripple effects were already spreading: Judy didn’t exist anymore. Instead, Nikolya’s “family” file listed a wrestling stable, several trainers, and Camille as her contracted aide and interpreter.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard. “Nine changes left,” she said, voice even. “Would you like to keep going?”

Inside the chamber, Nikolya struck a victory pose, flexed, then blew a kiss to the mirrored wall, lipstick-red lips curling into a fierce, amused smile.

A week later, the hotel conference room smelled faintly of brewed coffee and fresh carpet glue. It was a low-rise business center just off the freeway, bland enough to make anyone forget it an hour after leaving. At the long table sat three representatives from the American Athletic Outreach Program—polo shirts tucked into slacks, laminated badges on lanyards. They were eager, cautious, hoping for an ambassadorial deal.

At the head of the table, Nikolya Taylova radiated certainty. The crimson singlet and boots were gone; today she wore a sweeping ivory jumpsuit cinched with a metallic belt, her hair pulled into high twin braids threaded with velvet ribbons. She looked impossible to ignore, every movement like a performance.

Camille sat just to her right, posture perfect, tablet balanced on her lap. Her dress was champagne silk, knee-length, sleeveless, expensive without being gaudy. She smiled easily, a little too easily. Her lipstick matched her nails, and her earrings sparkled under the fluorescent lights.

The lead representative cleared his throat. “So… let’s talk about honorarium. We’re envisioning an engagement fee plus travel stipends. Standard for guest speakers, of course.”

Nikolya leaned forward, tapping her manicured nails against the folder. She spoke, her accent unmistakable but words careful, deliberate. “Fee must be… significant. I bring attention, yes? I bring women, young people, I bring strength. Not small fee.”

Camille smoothed her skirt and added softly, almost as an echo: “She means the figure should reflect her draw. She’s very… high-profile.”

The men nodded, scribbling notes.

---

Then something shifted. Not loudly, not visibly—just a ripple, like the fluorescent bulbs humming at a slightly different pitch.

Now, Nikolya’s English came quicker, smoother. She gestured with easy assurance, forming sentences without hesitation. Camille’s role shrank in an instant: not a partner, not a translator, just a glossy ornament at her side. Her dress was brighter now, a shimmering teal, the neckline lower, her smile tuned to charm without substance. The tablet had vanished, replaced by a small clutch purse that she didn’t open.

Nikolya spoke directly: “If you want me to speak, you pay for value. You know my record. You know I fill seats. I am not cheap.”

The Americans looked relieved to follow her English directly. They barely glanced at Camille, except to register her presence as part of the spectacle.

---

Another ripple. Like the carpet pattern had always been slightly different, like the coffee cups had always been porcelain instead of paper.

Nikolya’s English was nearly flawless now, her tone commanding, laced with wit. Her laughter landed at the right beats, drawing smiles from across the table. She didn’t need Camille at all, hadn’t for years. Camille was thinner, sharper, poured into a scarlet sheath dress. Her makeup glowed as if for a photoshoot, her hair glossy waves arranged to perfection. She was dazzling, but incidental—no one could recall her saying a word.

The negotiation moved smoothly. “Fifty thousand, minimum,” Nikolya said, leaning back with the ease of someone who always closed her deals. “Plus travel, plus accommodations. First class. You want me, you invest.”

The lead rep nodded nervously. “We… we can work with that.”

Camille crossed her legs, tilted her head, and smiled for no reason anyone could name. Her presence gilded the scene without touching it.

---

A final ripple. Softer, but absolute.

Nikolya spoke English perfectly, like a native. The traces of accent were gone; she could have passed for American-born if she wanted. The men across from her listened raptly, hanging on her terms.

Camille was stunning—more than stunning. Supermodel-level beauty, the kind that seemed airbrushed into reality, cheekbones sharp enough to cut, lips painted with impossible precision. Her gown shimmered like liquid silver, her heels impossibly high. But she had no role, no place beyond decoration. She was nothing but an American adornment at Nikolya’s side, her beauty a kind of accessory to the wrestler’s power.

Nobody noticed the shifts. To them, it had always been this way.

Nikolya closed the deal with a firm handshake, her smile gleaming. “Good. Then we are agreed.”

Camille smiled too, a perfect smile, though no one asked why she was even there.