Our TG Captionpage 3
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Certainly. Here's the rewritten passage, incorporating your requested changes with precision while preserving the original tone, structure, and flow:
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Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the dull gleam of the control panel, smoothing a finger down the edge of her auburn ponytail. It was taut and deliberate. She gave her sleeves a quick tug and surveyed her look with clinical approval. The lab coat—mandatory—was crisp, fitted just enough to suggest precision. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks played against soft rebellion: a blush-pink patent leather belt, flats with gold-tipped toes. Gold studs, slim watch. Nothing flashy. Everything intentional.
At eighteen, Bertha had seen no reason to finish high school. She’d already secured her job at *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*, a modest suburban outpost of the sleeker flagship downtown. That one shimmered with designer minimalism. This one squatted between a dry cleaner and a vape shop. But it worked. Customers came for their complimentary sample—a single transformation, free of charge. Most returned for more. Reality editing had shed its novelty but not its mystique. The machines still gleamed with secrets, powered by crystal cores sealed behind tempered glass.
Bertha didn’t pretend to understand the tech. She just had to make it desirable.
A chime sounded. She stood, adjusted her coat, and stepped into the lobby.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille, thirty-three, wore her style with a certain defiance: oxblood lipstick, cropped wool jacket over a vintage tee, a leather crossbody slung low. She surveyed the room with detached amusement, as if half-expecting to discover surveillance cams hidden in the ficus.
Beside her, Nicolle looked plain in comparison—mid-forties, dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her blonde hair was clipped back, makeup minimal. She carried a tote that clinked with every step.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, a little too loudly. “If this really works like my friend said—wow. She told me it changed everything. Said she felt like someone new.”
Bertha gave a neutral smile and led them down the hall. The corridor lights flickered once overhead. Nicolle chatted amiably—about her daughter, about the weird parking lot outside. Camille said little, arms folded, heeled boots whispering over linoleum.
In the Alteration Room, Bertha motioned for Nicolle to step into the chamber. The door shut with a soft hiss. Bertha crossed the hallway into the Command Room, where a console blinked to life beneath her touch. Nicolle’s profile appeared: forty-one. Works in sales. Married. One daughter—Judy, seventeen. A model of middle-American normal.
Camille leaned over her shoulder uninvited. “So, what’s the trick?”
“Trial gives you ten free changes,” Bertha replied. “Looks, traits, behavior—even memories. Everything holds as long as she’s inside. Once she exits, it’s permanent. Unless overwritten.”
Camille smirked. “I told her to loosen up. She’s always in a damn cardigan.”
Bertha scrolled through options. “Want bold? Let’s pivot her job. Something dramatic.”
Camille arched a brow. “Like what?”
Bertha paused, then typed:
**Occupation: Eye Candy.**
She hit *Execute*.
The chamber shimmered. When the distortion cleared, Nicolle was still standing—but transformed.
The button-down and jeans were gone. In their place: a skin-tight pencil skirt in glossy cherry red, slit high. A cream silk blouse clung to her like intention, unbuttoned scandalously low to frame her surgically maintained décolletage. Her figure was no longer average—it was eye-catching, honed and perfected, curves deliberate and designed. Stiletto heels, red as lacquer. Her hair had become a loose, tousled wave, like she’d just shaken it out for a photo shoot. Lips stained ruby. Nails matched. Her face, lifted and smoothed just enough, held the freshness of youth shaped by subtle intervention.
She shifted on her feet, one hand cocked at her waist, posture sharpened to allure. The expression on her face wasn’t confusion, but confidence. She knew what she looked like. Knew the effect it had.
Bertha gestured to the monitor. “She works at a marketing firm now. Her technical title is ‘Atmosphere Enhancement Specialist.’ She sits there and looks stunning. That’s the job. Literal eye candy. They put her in view of the glass conference room so clients walk in smiling.”
Camille stared. “She’s… office hot.”
Bertha nodded, satisfied. “She’s the one they seat near the windows during client visits. Always has the best pens. Laughs just enough to keep the mood light. Knows which tie brings out your eyes. People leave meetings in better moods and can’t explain why.”
Nicolle tossed her hair over one shoulder and adjusted her blouse. Not self-consciously—deliberately. Her smile had a new angle to it, sharpened by knowledge she hadn’t earned the slow way.
Bertha clicked her pen. “Nine changes left,” she said, voice calm as silk. “Shall we continue?”
---
Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the dull gleam of the control panel, smoothing a finger down the edge of her auburn ponytail. It was taut and deliberate. She gave her sleeves a quick tug and surveyed her look with clinical approval. The lab coat—mandatory—was crisp, fitted just enough to suggest precision. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks played against soft rebellion: a blush-pink patent leather belt, flats with gold-tipped toes. Gold studs, slim watch. Nothing flashy. Everything intentional.
At eighteen, Bertha had seen no reason to finish high school. She’d already secured her job at *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*, a modest suburban outpost of the sleeker flagship downtown. That one shimmered with designer minimalism. This one squatted between a dry cleaner and a vape shop. But it worked. Customers came for their complimentary sample—a single transformation, free of charge. Most returned for more. Reality editing had shed its novelty but not its mystique. The machines still gleamed with secrets, powered by crystal cores sealed behind tempered glass.
Bertha didn’t pretend to understand the tech. She just had to make it desirable.
A chime sounded. She stood, adjusted her coat, and stepped into the lobby.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial*,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”
Camille, thirty-three, wore her style with a certain defiance: oxblood lipstick, cropped wool jacket over a vintage tee, a leather crossbody slung low. She surveyed the room with detached amusement, as if half-expecting to discover surveillance cams hidden in the ficus.
Beside her, Nicolle looked plain in comparison—mid-forties, dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her blonde hair was clipped back, makeup minimal. She carried a tote that clinked with every step.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, a little too loudly. “If this really works like my friend said—wow. She told me it changed everything. Said she felt like someone new.”
Bertha gave a neutral smile and led them down the hall. The corridor lights flickered once overhead. Nicolle chatted amiably—about her daughter, about the weird parking lot outside. Camille said little, arms folded, heeled boots whispering over linoleum.
In the Alteration Room, Bertha motioned for Nicolle to step into the chamber. The door shut with a soft hiss. Bertha crossed the hallway into the Command Room, where a console blinked to life beneath her touch. Nicolle’s profile appeared: forty-one. Works in sales. Married. One daughter—Judy, seventeen. A model of middle-American normal.
Camille leaned over her shoulder uninvited. “So, what’s the trick?”
“Trial gives you ten free changes,” Bertha replied. “Looks, traits, behavior—even memories. Everything holds as long as she’s inside. Once she exits, it’s permanent. Unless overwritten.”
Camille smirked. “I told her to loosen up. She’s always in a damn cardigan.”
Bertha scrolled through options. “Want bold? Let’s pivot her job. Something dramatic.”
Camille arched a brow. “Like what?”
Bertha paused, then typed:
**Occupation: Eye Candy.**
She hit *Execute*.
The chamber shimmered. When the distortion cleared, Nicolle was still standing—but transformed.
The button-down and jeans were gone. In their place: a skin-tight pencil skirt in glossy cherry red, slit high. A cream silk blouse clung to her like intention, unbuttoned scandalously low to frame her surgically maintained décolletage. Her figure was no longer average—it was eye-catching, honed and perfected, curves deliberate and designed. Stiletto heels, red as lacquer. Her hair had become a loose, tousled wave, like she’d just shaken it out for a photo shoot. Lips stained ruby. Nails matched. Her face, lifted and smoothed just enough, held the freshness of youth shaped by subtle intervention.
She shifted on her feet, one hand cocked at her waist, posture sharpened to allure. The expression on her face wasn’t confusion, but confidence. She knew what she looked like. Knew the effect it had.
Bertha gestured to the monitor. “She works at a marketing firm now. Her technical title is ‘Atmosphere Enhancement Specialist.’ She sits there and looks stunning. That’s the job. Literal eye candy. They put her in view of the glass conference room so clients walk in smiling.”
Camille stared. “She’s… office hot.”
Bertha nodded, satisfied. “She’s the one they seat near the windows during client visits. Always has the best pens. Laughs just enough to keep the mood light. Knows which tie brings out your eyes. People leave meetings in better moods and can’t explain why.”
Nicolle tossed her hair over one shoulder and adjusted her blouse. Not self-consciously—deliberately. Her smile had a new angle to it, sharpened by knowledge she hadn’t earned the slow way.
Bertha clicked her pen. “Nine changes left,” she said, voice calm as silk. “Shall we continue?”
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