Our TG Captionpage 3
1 like
login to like
Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the dulled metal of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was neat, tight, symmetrical—professional. She smoothed the sleeves of her lab coat, mandatory issue but tailored to flatter. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into hunter-green slacks offered a suggestion of taste beyond the sterile. Her belt was a narrow blush patent leather; her flats, toe-tipped in gold. A slim watch, gold studs, and clean nails completed the look. Nothing ostentatious—just the right tilt of polish. Just enough to say: *I notice things.*
At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She’d seen no use in finishing once she’d landed the job at **The Changegrounds: Free Trial**—a quiet satellite branch wedged between a dry cleaner and a vape shop. The flagship downtown gleamed with corporate sheen, but this place had its own rhythm. Quieter. Stranger. They offered free one-time alterations—a gateway drug to the deeper work. Reality editing, once science fiction, was now merely proprietary. Controlled. The shards—luminescent and pulsing faintly behind shielded panels—still creeped her out, but she didn’t need to understand them. She just had to make the results look good.
The chime rang.
Bertha stood, adjusted her sleeves, and moved into the waiting area.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said crisply, clipboard in hand. “Let me check… Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille Potts looked mid-thirties, maybe. Dark lipstick, cropped wool jacket, graphic tee, a crossbody slung like a weapon. She scanned the bland lobby like she might blog about it later.
Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, pale blue blouse, black jeans. Shoulder-length blonde hair clipped back. A jangle came from her tote as she shifted her weight.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said brightly, voice a touch too loud. “My friend said it completely changed her. Like, changed her life.”
Bertha smiled the small, professional kind. “Let’s get started.”
They moved down the corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Nicolle filled the silence—something about parking spaces, something about her daughter—while Camille followed quietly, boots tapping like punctuation.
In the **Alteration Room**, Nicolle stepped into the chamber. Bertha sealed the door and crossed to the **Command Room** across the hall, where the interface flickered awake. Nicolle’s profile populated on-screen: forty-one. Regional sales job. Married, one daughter—Judy, seventeen. Respectable, solid, beige.
Camille leaned in over Bertha’s shoulder. “So, how does it work?”
“Ten free changes,” Bertha said. “Style, demeanor, habits, memories. When she steps out, what’s changed becomes reality.”
Camille smirked. “I told her to do something fun. She’s been so… beige for years.”
Bertha tilted her head, scanning the presets. “Fun,” she echoed. “All right. Let’s make her… executive. Power-forward. Entrepreneurial drive with maximum visibility.”
Camille blinked. “Like, a CEO?”
Bertha smiled faintly. “A *She-E-O*.”
She entered the command. The chamber pulsed—a soft, breathing light. The hum deepened. When it cleared, Nicolle stood where she had, but now she *radiated*.
Her blouse had become a scarlet silk blazer, cut to frame the kind of body that did Pilates and refused carbs. Beneath it: nothing but a sequined bralette that caught the fluorescent glare like paparazzi flashbulbs. Her black jeans were gone, replaced with a vinyl pencil skirt slit up to mid-thigh. Diamond-tipped stilettos gleamed. Gold hoops big enough to lasso attention swung when she tilted her head. Her lipstick was crimson; her hair, a honey-toned mane blown into impossible waves. A faint smell of champagne and ozone hung in the air.
She looked down at her manicured hands—chrome nails—and smiled, slow and predatory. “Oh, *this* is a rebrand,” she said, voice lower, deliberate. “I feel… scalable.”
Bertha jotted a note. “Entrepreneur subroutine active. Confidence index: maximum. Risk aversion: deleted.”
Camille stared. “You made her a CEO?”
Bertha watched as Nicolle strutted forward, heels clicking like exclamation points. “More than that,” she said. “She thinks she built The Changegrounds.”
On the screen, Nicolle’s past had rewritten itself: founder, investor, keynote darling. Her LinkedIn photo now showed her mid-laugh over a martini glass. Her husband had become her publicist; her daughter, a brand intern. Her social feeds overflowed with inspirational quotes in gradient fonts and power poses in neon suits.
Nicolle tossed her hair and laughed. “We need to disrupt something,” she said to no one in particular. “Maybe… the idea of sleep.”
Camille looked at her, half-awed, half-disturbed. “She’s… kind of terrifying.”
Bertha shrugged. “That’s leadership.”
Nicolle turned toward her reflection in the glass of the chamber, adjusting the angle of her blazer until her cleavage caught the light just right. “Perfect,” she murmured. “Let’s go viral.”
Bertha clicked her pen. “Nine changes left,” she said. “Want to keep going?”
At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She’d seen no use in finishing once she’d landed the job at **The Changegrounds: Free Trial**—a quiet satellite branch wedged between a dry cleaner and a vape shop. The flagship downtown gleamed with corporate sheen, but this place had its own rhythm. Quieter. Stranger. They offered free one-time alterations—a gateway drug to the deeper work. Reality editing, once science fiction, was now merely proprietary. Controlled. The shards—luminescent and pulsing faintly behind shielded panels—still creeped her out, but she didn’t need to understand them. She just had to make the results look good.
The chime rang.
Bertha stood, adjusted her sleeves, and moved into the waiting area.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said crisply, clipboard in hand. “Let me check… Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille Potts looked mid-thirties, maybe. Dark lipstick, cropped wool jacket, graphic tee, a crossbody slung like a weapon. She scanned the bland lobby like she might blog about it later.
Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, pale blue blouse, black jeans. Shoulder-length blonde hair clipped back. A jangle came from her tote as she shifted her weight.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said brightly, voice a touch too loud. “My friend said it completely changed her. Like, changed her life.”
Bertha smiled the small, professional kind. “Let’s get started.”
They moved down the corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Nicolle filled the silence—something about parking spaces, something about her daughter—while Camille followed quietly, boots tapping like punctuation.
In the **Alteration Room**, Nicolle stepped into the chamber. Bertha sealed the door and crossed to the **Command Room** across the hall, where the interface flickered awake. Nicolle’s profile populated on-screen: forty-one. Regional sales job. Married, one daughter—Judy, seventeen. Respectable, solid, beige.
Camille leaned in over Bertha’s shoulder. “So, how does it work?”
“Ten free changes,” Bertha said. “Style, demeanor, habits, memories. When she steps out, what’s changed becomes reality.”
Camille smirked. “I told her to do something fun. She’s been so… beige for years.”
Bertha tilted her head, scanning the presets. “Fun,” she echoed. “All right. Let’s make her… executive. Power-forward. Entrepreneurial drive with maximum visibility.”
Camille blinked. “Like, a CEO?”
Bertha smiled faintly. “A *She-E-O*.”
She entered the command. The chamber pulsed—a soft, breathing light. The hum deepened. When it cleared, Nicolle stood where she had, but now she *radiated*.
Her blouse had become a scarlet silk blazer, cut to frame the kind of body that did Pilates and refused carbs. Beneath it: nothing but a sequined bralette that caught the fluorescent glare like paparazzi flashbulbs. Her black jeans were gone, replaced with a vinyl pencil skirt slit up to mid-thigh. Diamond-tipped stilettos gleamed. Gold hoops big enough to lasso attention swung when she tilted her head. Her lipstick was crimson; her hair, a honey-toned mane blown into impossible waves. A faint smell of champagne and ozone hung in the air.
She looked down at her manicured hands—chrome nails—and smiled, slow and predatory. “Oh, *this* is a rebrand,” she said, voice lower, deliberate. “I feel… scalable.”
Bertha jotted a note. “Entrepreneur subroutine active. Confidence index: maximum. Risk aversion: deleted.”
Camille stared. “You made her a CEO?”
Bertha watched as Nicolle strutted forward, heels clicking like exclamation points. “More than that,” she said. “She thinks she built The Changegrounds.”
On the screen, Nicolle’s past had rewritten itself: founder, investor, keynote darling. Her LinkedIn photo now showed her mid-laugh over a martini glass. Her husband had become her publicist; her daughter, a brand intern. Her social feeds overflowed with inspirational quotes in gradient fonts and power poses in neon suits.
Nicolle tossed her hair and laughed. “We need to disrupt something,” she said to no one in particular. “Maybe… the idea of sleep.”
Camille looked at her, half-awed, half-disturbed. “She’s… kind of terrifying.”
Bertha shrugged. “That’s leadership.”
Nicolle turned toward her reflection in the glass of the chamber, adjusting the angle of her blazer until her cleavage caught the light just right. “Perfect,” she murmured. “Let’s go viral.”
Bertha clicked her pen. “Nine changes left,” she said. “Want to keep going?”
What do you do?
Create your own Path!