Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It stayed neat—pulled back tight—and she gave it a quick once-over before smoothing the sleeves of her lab coat. The fabric was crisp, the fit precise. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks lent a trace of personality; her belt was a blush patent strip, her flats touched with gold at the toe. Subtle, but intentional.

She was eighteen, already out of high school—had left early when she landed the job at **The Changegrounds: Free Trial**, the small satellite branch of the downtown flagship. The real Changegrounds gleamed behind glass and polished branding. This one sat between a dry cleaner and a nail salon, its sign flickering. But it served its purpose. People came for their *free trial*: one complimentary set of reality edits. Most came back for something permanent.

Bertha didn’t pretend to understand the inner workings of the system—the crystalline cores behind sealed panels, the threads of light that hummed when activated. She only had to make it appealing.

A chime rang from the front. She stood, straightened 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?”

The taller of the two women nodded. “Yes, that’s us.”

Camille, thirty-three, carried herself with a sort of half-cynical poise—dark lipstick, cropped wool jacket, a crossbody bag slung with practiced carelessness. Her glance swept the space with mild amusement, as if suspecting the walls might hide something absurd.

Beside her, Nicolle smiled brightly. Mid-forties, soft-spoken but confident. Her pale blue button-down and black jeans were neat; her hair was clipped back, her tote bag gently clinking with unseen contents.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said. “My friend swore this place changed her life. I mean—literally changed her. She said she walked out a new woman.”

Bertha smiled politely and gestured them down the corridor. The overhead lights flickered as they walked. Nicolle chatted—about her daughter, about traffic, about how surreal it was that a strip mall could house something so “futuristic.” Camille said little, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the numbered doors.

Inside the **Alteration Room**, Bertha guided Nicolle into the chamber and sealed the door. Across the hall, in the **Command Room**, the system warmed to life, humming low. Nicolle’s profile appeared on-screen: forty-one, sales associate, one daughter, Judy, seventeen. Married eighteen years.

Camille leaned over her shoulder, uninvited. “So what’s the pitch this time? You give her a makeover, she feels special for ten minutes, then pays for the upgrade?”

Bertha’s tone was patient. “It’s real change. Lasts as long as she’s in the chamber. Once she steps out, the world adjusts around her. Everything reconfigures to make it true.”

Camille arched a brow. “Okay. So what’s she trying?”

Bertha tapped her pen against the clipboard, thinking. “Let’s see… something that suits her spirit. A *matriarch*, maybe.”

Camille tilted her head. “As in, what—like, queen mother?”

Bertha’s lips curved faintly. “Dignity. Command. Nurture with gravity. The kind of woman you don’t argue with—but you still come to for advice.”

Camille hesitated, then gave a short, dry laugh. “Sure. Why not. Let’s see that.”

Bertha entered the command, her fingers precise. The air around the chamber shifted; the glass shimmered, a faint pulse like breath behind fog.

When the distortion cleared, Nicolle stood inside—unchanged, and yet completely transformed.

Her clothes were simple, but impossibly *right*: a soft gray wrap dress cinched at the waist with a sculptural brooch, sensible heels with a quiet shine. Her hair, still blonde, was drawn back into a smooth twist, a single loose curl at her temple. Her makeup was subtle but exacting. And her bearing—her bearing radiated authority so natural it felt gravitational. Shoulders straight, chin lifted slightly, eyes calm and assessing.

Not regal, exactly. Not severe. But *final*.

Bertha’s monitors updated seamlessly. Nicolle Taylor, matriarch of her family—pillar of her neighborhood association, keeper of family lore, the one whose phone everyone answered. Her husband deferred to her judgment with affection. Her daughter Judy, seventeen, had grown up believing her mother’s word was fact, the sort of truth that shaped the air. Dinner tables had always gathered around Nicolle. Holidays had always organized themselves around her decisions. The past had adjusted itself with quiet efficiency.

Camille blinked. “She… she’s always been like this?”

Bertha smiled. “Of course. Everyone knows that.”

In the chamber, Nicolle glanced around mildly. “So—has it started yet?” she asked, her voice low but steady, each word carrying the weight of someone accustomed to being heard.

“It’s complete,” Bertha said softly.

Nicolle smoothed her sleeve, thoughtful. “Hmm. Well, I don’t feel any different.”

Camille’s expression flickered between admiration and unease. “No,” she murmured. “You wouldn’t.”

Bertha checked her clipboard, pen poised. “Nine changes left,” she said, voice calm, approving. “Shall we keep going?”