Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, fingers deftly tugging at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was sleek, cinched high, and she gave it one last check before smoothing the sleeves of her lab coat—mandatory, of course, but hers was crisply tailored, suggesting a quiet meticulousness. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked neatly into dark green slacks offered a whisper of flair: a blush patent-leather belt, flats with a subtle gold toe cap, delicate stud earrings, a slim watch. Not ostentatious, but curated. Fashion threaded through her look in a way that spoke of intention rather than accident.

At eighteen, Bertha had left high school behind. Why linger when she’d already secured a job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial? It was one of the suburban offshoots of the glimmering flagship downtown. While the main Changegrounds gleamed with glass walls and cutting-edge chic, this branch squatted beside a dry cleaner in a faded strip mall. Still, it delivered. Free one-time alterations drew people in, promising a taste of reality editing—a science now familiar, yet still vaguely mythic, driven by the mysterious shimmer of crystal shards locked away behind armored panels.

Bertha didn’t pretend to understand the technology. She just needed to make it enticing.

The chime rang from the front. She rose, gave her coat one final tug, 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. “That’s us.”

Camille was thirty-three, sharper at the edges: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag slung casually, cropped wool jacket, graphic tee. Her gaze skimmed the room with amused suspicion, as if half-expecting to catch a hidden camera winking from the ivy in the corner.

Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, sensibly dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Blonde hair caught back with a clip, minimal makeup, a tote bag shifting on her shoulder with a faint metallic clatter.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said brightly, her voice carrying a touch too loud. “If it’s half as amazing as my friend says—she said it changed her life. Said she felt like a new person.”

Bertha’s smile was brief but professional as she guided them down the hall. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered once, twice. Nicolle chattered easily—about her daughter, about the weirdly narrow parking spaces outside. Camille followed, silent, arms crossed, boots tapping a lazy rhythm.

In the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured Nicolle into the chamber and sealed the door. Across the hall in the Command Room, she flicked on the system. The monitors flared to life, Nicolle’s profile blinking into view: forty-one, sales, daughter Judy, seventeen. Married, eighteen years. Ordinary.

Camille leaned in over her shoulder, uninvited. “So… what’s the gimmick?”

“Trial gives you ten free changes,” Bertha said, fingers skimming across the preset list. “Looks, personality, behavior, even memories. Once she leaves the chamber, they lock in—unless you overwrite.”

Camille gave a sly grin. “Told her to pick something fun. She never does. Always the mom sweater, always the same hair.”

Bertha’s lips curved faintly as she scrolled. “All right. Let’s dial it up a little. Let’s make her the mom who turns heads—the kind people notice in the school pickup line. Confident. Magnetic. A real MILF.”

Camille gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, hell yes.”

Bertha selected the preset and hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle still stood there—but transformed. The pale blue blouse and black jeans were gone, replaced by a sleek ivory wrap dress, hugging her curves just so, hem grazing mid-thigh. Nude stilettos with a dangerous arch adorned her feet. Her hair tumbled in glossy, tousled waves, artfully undone; her makeup glowed—subtle contouring, fluttering lashes, a soft nude lip. Gold hoops grazed her jawline, and a delicate chain gleamed at her throat.

Her posture spoke a new language. One hip cocked, shoulders relaxed, head tilted with a practiced ease. When she turned, the room seemed to bend fractionally toward her, as if recognizing some invisible pull.

Bertha murmured, “She’s always known how to own a room. PTA queen. Gym regular. Cocktail parties, charity events—she floats through them all.”

The edits rewrote themselves: Nicolle’s closet now brimmed with wrap dresses and heels, her evenings filled with dinner parties, her mornings with Pilates. Judy learned contouring by watching her mother; the school drop-off lane occasionally stalled when Nicolle stepped from her car in mirrored shades, coffee in hand.

Camille blinked, then gave a slow, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus.”

Bertha smiled faintly. “She’s radiant now. Knows what she wants—and how to get it.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle ran a hand through her hair, smiling with the easy, dangerous charm of someone long accustomed to being admired.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard. “Nine changes left,” she said smoothly. “Shall we keep going?”

Bertha’s fingers hovered over the console, the glow of the monitors painting her face in shifting bands of blue and green. Camille, still leaning in close, gave a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“She looks… incredible,” Camille murmured. “Seriously, I don’t even—”

Bertha arched a brow, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the console. Something in Camille’s tone sparked a faint flicker behind her eyes. It was always like this—the stunned amazement, the thrill at transformation. But Bertha had seen enough to know: amazement could be pushed further.

“Want to see how far she can go?” she asked, her voice low, almost conspiratorial.

Camille looked at her, eyes bright with mischief. “How far are we talking?”

Bertha smiled, a small, precise thing. She slid her finger down the presets, past *Confident*, past *Glamorous*, past *Seductive*, to the custom sliders. The labels were clinical, almost antiseptic: *Maternal Warmth*, *Sexual Magnetism*, *Behavioral Accentuation*. She nudged the first two forward—then pushed *Sexual Magnetism* into the red.

“She won’t notice the change happening,” Bertha murmured. “It’ll feel natural. Like it was always there.”

The execute button pulsed once under her fingertip. She pressed it.

The chamber shimmered again, the crystalline pulse rippling outward like a soft exhalation through the room. Camille straightened slightly, crossing her arms as she watched.

When the light cleared, Nicolle remained standing in the chamber, but the transformation was no longer subtle.

Her wrap dress was gone, replaced by a skintight blush-pink bodysuit that clung like a second skin, plunging deep at the neckline and high at the hips. A thin gold chain belt draped low across her waist, shimmering with every subtle shift. Stiletto heels, now a towering five inches, gleamed at her feet, each step an invitation. Her hair cascaded in thick, tousled waves, catching the light with a rich, honeyed luster.

Her body language had evolved too—hips swayed with idle, unconscious motion, lips parted just slightly as if always on the verge of a laugh, or a breathless whisper. Her eyes, lined and dark, gleamed with a languid, half-lidded heat.

But it was the details that completed the caricature: the way she adjusted the thin straps on her shoulders with a delicate, absent-minded tug; the knowing little smile that played at the corners of her mouth; the gleam of amused challenge in her gaze.

Bertha read the system’s internal update, scrolling rapidly:

> Motherhood: Intensely nurturing, hyper-attuned to children’s needs, instinctively protective.
> Sexuality: Unapologetically provocative, effortlessly seductive, profoundly aware of effect on others.
> Integration: Seamless. Subject perceives new identity as organic, long-established.

Camille gave a short, almost breathless laugh. “Oh my *God*. That’s—” She ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head. “That’s obscene.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle turned slightly, one hand brushing through her hair, the other resting just above the soft curve of her hip. She moved as if alone in her bedroom mirror, pleased and unselfconscious, humming under her breath. She was utterly unaware of the tightrope she now walked between maternal glow and unapologetic carnality—every gesture soaked in it, every smile tinged with it.

Bertha watched, an unreadable expression flickering across her face.

“Nine changes left,” she said softly, almost to herself. Her pen clicked once, sharp in the silence.

Beside her, Camille let out a low, incredulous whistle. “Okay,” she murmured. “Now *that’s* a makeover.”