Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen tilted her reflection in the mirrored panel of the console, lips curling faintly as she adjusted the black choker at her throat. Her auburn hair, usually bound in a neat ponytail, now tumbled in soft, teased waves around her shoulders. The costume was ridiculous—technically a “mad scientist,” but of course, the Halloween rental shop had slapped “sexy” on the bag. The lab coat barely skimmed her thighs; beneath it, a fitted vinyl corset cinched her waist. Fishnet stockings ran into shiny black heels, while oversized goggles perched rakishly above her forehead like a headband. Sultry but comedic, she thought—good enough for today, when the Changegrounds had decided to decorate the strip-mall branch with foam gravestones, fake cobwebs, and jack-o’-lantern string lights that flickered every so often like they were powered by dying spirits instead of old wiring.

She tugged her coat sleeves once, making sure the cuffs at least looked professional. Her clipboard gave her something solid to hold onto, a prop to balance the absurdity of her outfit.

The door chime sang, a hollow Halloween-tone chime, and Bertha stepped forward into the lobby. Plastic bats dangled from the ceiling above the waiting chairs. A motion-activated skeleton in the corner cackled faintly before its batteries gave out halfway.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” Bertha said, bright and clipped, pen poised. “Let me check—Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”

The younger woman gave a little wave, vinyl squeaking. Camille, only twenty-four, was clearly leaning into her getup: the iconic red catsuit, skin-tight and glossy, unmistakably Britney Spears circa *Oops!… I Did It Again.* Her black eyeliner and glossy lips carried both irony and enjoyment. “That’s us,” she said, a little snark curling at the edges of her voice.

Next to her stood Nicolle, mid-forties, the cousin who looked like she’d been dragged along against her will. Her devil-horn headband tilted slightly askew, the felt tail pinned to the back of her cheap slacks with a safety pin. A plain red blouse did little to glamorize her stiff posture. If anything, the whole thing screamed “office costume” assembled from a cubicle drawer. Nicolle carried herself like someone important, though—a high-level HR professional with the aura of meetings and policies, not glitter and games.

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” Nicolle admitted, voice professional but pitched a little too high with nervous energy. “Halloween, I mean. My office insisted. HR rep from hell, they said.” She tapped her headband as if it explained everything. “Budget-friendly.”

Bertha’s smile didn’t flicker. She’d seen plenty of these: people reluctant to step into possibility until someone else nudged them.

Camille rolled her eyes, tugging at the curve of her red catsuit. “I told her she should at least *try* something fun. She’s always so buttoned-up. Even on Halloween.”

Bertha inclined her head, gesturing toward the hallway. Overhead, the lights hummed against the cobwebs taped sloppily to the corners. Nicolle’s tote bag clinked faintly as she walked, rambling about office potlucks and the logistics of carving time out of her schedule for this “trial thing.” Camille mostly stayed quiet except for the squeak of vinyl when she folded her arms.

The Alteration Room awaited, lit in pale orange glow for the holiday. Bertha motioned Nicolle into the chamber, closing the door with practiced ease. Then she crossed into the Command Room, monitors flaring awake in front of her. Nicolle’s profile loaded: forty-four, executive in HR, single daughter—Judy, seventeen. Eighteen years married, now divorced. No notable Halloween history… at least, not one the system displayed.

Camille hovered at her shoulder, chewing at her lip. “So… what’s the gimmick? Just clothes?”

“Not just clothes,” Bertha said smoothly. “The trial allows ten free changes. Looks, personality, behavior, even memories. They all hold once she steps out of the chamber. Unless overwritten, of course.”

Camille squinted. “Sounds like a scam. But fine. She’s already dressed like an intern who lost a dare. Can you make her actually look like she *meant* to be a devil?”

Bertha tilted her head, considering. “Not just meant. Confident. Commanding. The kind of woman who makes a Halloween party stop when she walks in. And—” Bertha tapped at the interface, her nails clicking against the screen—“someone who’s always been that way. She’s the woman who never once settled for a safe costume. Every October since she was sixteen, she’s shown up slutty as hell. And everyone knew it.”

Camille blinked, startled, then grinned. “Oh my god. Yes. Do it.”

Bertha keyed in the sequence. Adjustments slipped into place: confidence, sultriness, history rewritten like pearls threaded on a new chain. Then she pressed *execute.*

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle stood in its center, transformed. The blouse and clipped tail were gone. Instead, a skin-tight leather bodysuit hugged every line of her frame, plunging low across her chest to flaunt cleavage with unapologetic bravado. A corseted waist accentuated her curves, while fishnet stockings traced down into knee-high stiletto boots that clicked when she shifted her weight. Her devil horns gleamed lacquer-black, sharper now, more sculpted. A tail, slick and pointed, coiled at her side like a prop that had been too expensive for any costume store.

Her makeup was flawless: a deep blood-red lipstick, cheekbones contoured with merciless precision, eyes winged with a catlike flick that made her gaze dangerous. Copper-red highlights flared through her hair, glossy waves spilling around her shoulders in deliberate contrast to her old, pinned-back style.

But the shift was deeper than clothing. Nicolle’s posture unfurled—hips canted just so, shoulders rolling with languid grace, chin tilted as though she expected the world to kneel before her. She was no longer the stiff HR rep from hell. She was the devil you *wanted* to sign your contract.

Camille’s mouth fell open. “Holy— She doesn’t even look like herself.”

Bertha nodded once, calm as ever, clipboard in hand. “She’s always been like this. Every Halloween, without fail. Slutty nurse, Playboy bunny, Vegas showgirl, French maid. It’s tradition now. No one even blinks when Nicolle arrives at the office party like this. They expect it.”

Memories shifted seamlessly, sliding into Nicolle’s history like ink bleeding through paper. Judy had grown up embarrassed, begging her mother to tone it down every October. The office had whispered behind closed doors, but always showed up at the party anyway, curious to see what Nicolle would dare next.

In the chamber, Nicolle adjusted a strand of glossy hair with two perfectly manicured fingers, then let her lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. Her eyes—smoldering, deliberate—flicked toward the observation window. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, a look that suggested she knew exactly what Camille was thinking, and enjoyed it.

Bertha clicked her pen once, tone professional, almost bored. “Nine more tricks… or treats?”

---

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, tugging lightly at the fake goggles strung around her neck. They were plastic, more prop than tool, but they framed her “mad scientist” costume—white lab coat cut short to the thigh, fishnet tights, and a clingy bustier instead of a blouse. Halloween gave her the excuse. She smoothed the curve of her ponytail, making sure it still looked neat, then tugged at her sleeves. Even in costume, she liked precision.

The facility had leaned into the season. Paper bats dangled from the ceiling. Plastic pumpkins lined the reception counter. A half-collapsed scarecrow leaned near the entrance. This wasn’t the glamorous downtown Changegrounds, all chrome and glass. This was The Changegrounds: Free Trial, wedged in a strip mall between a dry cleaner and a karate studio. But a fake cobweb across the doorframe gave it a kind of charm.

A chime rang from the front. Bertha stood, tugged her coat into place again, and stepped into the waiting room with clipboard in hand.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, smiling. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”

The taller of the two nodded. “That’s us.”

Camille looked every bit twenty-four in her costume: plaid skirt, white blouse knotted high, sheer stockings. A cheap blonde wig hung low with side-swept bangs. She chewed her gum and snapped it, a perfectly serviceable Britney Spears circa …Baby One More Time.

Nicolle, in contrast, was mid-forties and dressed more for the office. Her Halloween attempt was half-hearted: a red blouse, slim black pants, and a headband with foam devil horns clipped over her blonde hair. A thin devil tail dangled behind her like an afterthought. She carried herself with practiced professionalism, even in costume—HR director of a regional firm, the kind who managed with firm but friendly authority.

“I’ve got my office party after this,” Nicolle explained, her voice bright but a little too loud. “Devil seemed easiest. I told people I’d be the HR rep from hell.” She laughed once, more out of obligation than amusement.

Bertha offered a polite nod and gestured them down the hallway. Nicolle chattered about budget meetings, her daughter Judy’s college applications, the strip mall parking lot. Camille mostly kept quiet, rolling her gum and letting her boots click lazily against the tile.

Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured for Nicolle to step inside the chamber. Across the hall in the Command Room, she brought the monitors online. Nicolle’s profile flickered up: forty-four, VP of Human Resources, daughter seventeen, divorced five years. A high-achiever with a reputation for being thorough, steady, a little buttoned-up.

Camille peered over Bertha’s shoulder. “So what’s the deal? Ten free changes?”

“Exactly,” Bertha said. “Looks, personality, behavior, even memories. She can leave with them permanent if she wants. Think of it as… trial enhancements.”

Camille grinned. “She’s never fun on Halloween. Always boring. That little devil getup? That’s as far as she goes.”

Bertha tilted her head. “What if she’d always gone further? What if she didn’t just wear horns for a laugh, but—” she tapped the screen lightly “—believed Halloween was her stage? Sexy costumes every year since she was sixteen. A tradition. A reflex.”

Camille smirked. “Make her a real devil, then.”

Bertha keyed in the adjustment. Confidence boost. Costume impulse rewritten. A history of turning heads every October, whether it was a lacy witch dress in college, a dominatrix angel at twenty-nine, or a latex cat suit the year after her divorce. Nicolle wasn’t the woman who reluctantly wore devil horns for the office. She was the woman who couldn’t not dress slutty on Halloween, propriety be damned.

She hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle was transformed. The horns remained, but sharper now, metallic red and gleaming. Her blouse had become a fitted corset, low-cut, laced tight to accentuate curves. A glossy mini-skirt hugged her hips, ending far above the knee. Fishnet tights snaked down into black stiletto heels tipped in crimson. Her blonde hair gleamed brighter, straighter, as if freshly styled, with one lock falling artfully over one eye. Dark liner framed her lashes, her lips glossed a daring scarlet.

The tote bag she’d carried was gone. In its place, a slender pitchfork leaned casually against her side, more accessory than weapon.

But it wasn’t just the outfit. Her bearing had changed. Shoulders back, chin lifted, one hand cocked at her waist with the poise of someone who’d walked into a hundred parties dressed exactly like this—and never once apologized for it. Her smile was slow, confident, almost wicked.

Bertha leaned back, satisfied. “She’s been doing this forever now. Sexy witch in high school. Naughty nurse in her twenties. Even last year—tight leather succubus. Everyone at the office just expects it. It’s tradition. HR or not, she’s the devil every Halloween.”

Camille’s gum almost fell from her mouth. “Holy shit. She looks like she’d eat half her coworkers alive.”

Bertha’s smile widened faintly. “Exactly. And she wouldn’t think twice about it.”

In the chamber, Nicolle shifted her weight, striking an effortless pose, the devil tail flicking behind her. She turned her head toward the observation window, her grin wicked and assured.

Bertha tapped her clipboard with her pen. “Nine changes left,” she said, voice light. “Shall we turn up the heat?”