Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was neat, pulled back tight, and she gave it a once-over before smoothing her sleeves. Her lab coat—mandatory—was clean and fitted well enough to suggest an eye for detail. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks played off subtle flair—her belt was a skinny blush patent leather, and her flats had a faint sheen, toe-tipped in gold. Gold stud earrings and a slim watch added polish. Not flashy, but considered. A whisper of fashionista threaded through her look, just enough to feel intentional.

At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She didn’t see the point in finishing when she’d already landed a job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a small, suburban branch of a much bigger operation downtown. The real Changegrounds was all glass walls and designer branding. This one was tucked into a forgettable strip mall next to a dry cleaner. But it worked. They offered free one-time alterations, the bait for customers who might return for something permanent. Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it was still mysterious—powered by odd-looking crystal shards sealed behind thick panels.

Bertha didn’t claim to understand how it all worked. She just had to make it sound appealing.

A chime rang from the front. She stood, adjusted her coat again, 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 gave a quick nod. “Yes. That’s us.”

Camille was thirty-three, clearly younger than her cousin but dressed with more edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee. She looked around the waiting room with faint amusement, as if half-expecting to find cameras hidden in the potted plants.

Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, modestly dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her hair was blonde, shoulder-length, pulled back with a clip. She wore minimal makeup. A tote bag hung from one shoulder, jangling slightly with every step.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, her voice easygoing, a little too loud. “I mean, if it can really do what my friend said it can do, that’s wild. She said she felt like a different person after.”

Bertha offered a brief smile and led them down the corridor. The hallway lights flickered overhead. Nicolle chatted as they walked—about her daughter, about how weird the strip mall parking lot was. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, her heeled boots clicking softly.

Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured for Nicolle to step inside the chamber and closed the door behind her. Across the hall, in the Command Room, she brought the system online. The monitors flickered to life. Nicolle’s profile loaded: forty-one, works in sales, one daughter—seventeen, named Judy. Married eighteen years. Pretty average.

Camille peered over Bertha’s shoulder, uninvited. “So… what’s the trick?”

“Trial gives you ten free changes,” Bertha said. “You can use as many or as few as you like. Looks, personality, behavior, even memories. They all hold as long as she’s inside the chamber. Once she’s out, they become permanent unless overwritten.”

Camille cocked a brow. “I told her to try something fun. She’s always in a cardigan. Always.”

Bertha scrolled through the options. “She doesn’t strike me as someone who’d want flashy. Let’s go in the opposite direction.”

Camille gave a short laugh. “What, like a nun?”

Bertha’s tone shifted subtly—more thoughtful. “No. A librarian. Let’s make it so that’s what she’s always been. The kind who speaks softly but owns a room. A little reserved, maybe—disciplined. Loves her work.”

Camille shrugged. “Sure. Why not.”

Bertha tapped in the command, then hit execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle stood quietly, hands clasped in front of her. Her jeans and button-down were gone. Now she wore a soft gray knit dress, cinched at the waist with a woven leather belt. Opaque tights and low-heeled ankle boots completed the look. Her hair had darkened a shade, now swept into a clean French twist held in place by two antique brass pins. Square-framed glasses perched on her nose. Her makeup was subtle: a hint of rose on the lips, a touch of powder. But her gaze had changed—calm, attentive, a little curious.

Even the way she held herself was different—still, composed, like someone who moved through the world by choice rather than impulse.

Bertha smiled faintly. “She’s head librarian at a mid-sized public branch. Specializes in archival research. Used to shelve books by color when she was a kid. Taught herself Latin in college for fun. Thinks the Dewey Decimal System is tragically underappreciated.”

Memories realigned. Nicolle had never worked in sales. She’d interned at the county library at seventeen, catalogued historic records, built author-themed displays for summer readers. Judy had grown up in the quiet hush of reading rooms, learning to whisper and wait her turn. At dinner, Nicolle recommended obscure short stories over dessert.

Camille blinked. “Is she always like that now?”

Bertha nodded, pleased. “She prefers quiet spaces. Takes long walks in cemeteries. Believes words are the purest form of magic.”

In the chamber, Nicolle adjusted the sleeves of her dress, then glanced up at the observation window. Her smile was soft, almost shy, but there was a keen intelligence behind it—like she was waiting to be asked something worth answering.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard. “Nine changes left,” she said, voice light. “Want to keep going?”