Our TG Caption

Certainly! Here’s the revised version with the specified change: Nicolle's aesthetic transforms along with her hair to reflect her new commitment to style. Everything else remains exactly the same.

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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 quick once-over before smoothing her sleeves. Her lab coat—mandatory—was crisp, fitted, worn with care. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks struck a poised balance with a skinny blush patent belt and gold-tipped flats. A pair of small gold studs and a slim watch finished the look. Nothing flashy, but everything deliberate—each choice suggesting someone who noticed the details others missed.

At eighteen, Bertha had walked away from high school with a job offer in hand and no desire to linger. The Changegrounds: Free Trial wasn’t the flagship location—this branch crouched in a sleepy strip mall between a dry cleaner and a chiropractor—but the tech worked the same. One free alteration, meant to tempt, to tease. Customers came curious, left altered. Some never went back to who they'd been. Reality editing had lost its novelty, but not its mystique. The machines ran on polished crystal shards sealed behind reinforced panels, humming softly like distant stars.

Bertha didn’t need to understand it all. She only had to make it sound like magic.

The front chime rang. She stood, adjusted her coat, and stepped into the lobby.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Let me see—Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”

The taller of the two women nodded. “That’s us.”

Camille was in her early thirties, sharp-edged and amused—dark lipstick, a cropped wool jacket, and a leather crossbody bag slung with effortless slouch. She glanced around the room like she was casing it, or expecting someone to jump out and declare a prank.

Nicolle, mid-forties, gave off a friendlier, looser energy. She wore a pale blue button-down tucked into plain black jeans, her shoulder-length blonde hair clipped back. A soft tote jangled on her arm. Her voice was cheery, a little too loud.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said. “My friend tried it and swears it changed her life. Said it was like meeting a better version of herself.”

Bertha gave a small, practiced smile and led them down the corridor. The lights overhead flickered softly, their hum matching the rhythm of Nicolle’s chatter—about her teenage daughter, about the weird strip mall, about the traffic that morning. Camille trailed behind, arms crossed, heels clicking with each step, her expression unreadable.

Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured for Nicolle to step into the chamber and sealed the door behind her. Across the hall in the Command Room, Bertha brought the system online. The monitors flared to life. Nicolle’s profile appeared: forty-one, in sales, married, one daughter named Judy. A life lived without ornament.

Camille leaned in, uninvited. “So. What’s the angle?”

“Ten free changes,” Bertha said. “Use them all or just one. Anything from style to behavior to memory. It lasts once she steps out—unless you overwrite it later.”

Camille narrowed her eyes at the screen. “She always plays it safe. Buttoned up, kind of beige. I told her to go for it. Just once.”

Bertha scrolled. “Alright. Let’s try a style update. But not clothing—not yet. Something more defining.”

“Hair?” Camille offered.

Bertha nodded. “Let’s start with that.”

She entered the command: *Lengthen hair. Straighten. Lustrous, controlled, high-shine. Platinum blonde with warm undertones. Style: precise, center-parted, sleek to the waist.*

Then she pressed execute.

The chamber shimmered.

When the light cleared, Nicolle was still standing in place, but the difference radiated from her like a whispered declaration. Her once-practical bob had transformed into a sheet of straight, perfect blonde hair that fell past her waist. It glistened under the fluorescent lights, sleek as glass, parted with geometric precision. No frizz, no kink, no flyaways. It was the kind of hair that required ritual, discipline, devotion.

Her outfit had shifted, too—her black jeans and pale blouse replaced by tailored ivory trousers and a structured dove-gray sleeveless blouse tucked in with surgical precision. The fabric had an elegant sheen, subtle but assertive. On her feet, pale nude pumps sharpened her silhouette. A rose gold cuff and sleek handbag completed the look. She looked expensive. Intentional.

Her expression was almost reverent as her hand lifted to touch the ends of her hair.

Bertha smiled faintly. “She’s always had it. Uses silk pillowcases and a boar bristle brush. Once drove an hour for a discontinued serum.”

Memories shifted to fit the frame. Nicolle’s morning routines had always begun with flat irons and leave-in sprays. She’d taught Judy how to blow-dry properly, how to use sectioning clips and heat protectant. Photographs would show her with a waterfall of hair, posing at PTA meetings, girls’ nights, beach trips—always gleaming, always immaculate. Her wardrobe, once practical, now aligned with the discipline of her hair—curated, crisp, and polished.

Camille exhaled. “That… actually looks incredible.”

Bertha nodded. “Subtle. But it changes the whole presence.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle turned slowly, a hand gliding down the curve of her new hair. She gave a small, knowing smile—like she had just remembered something private and thrilling. Her posture had shifted too: taller, somehow; composed.

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

Camille hesitated, arms still crossed, her gaze locked on Nicolle through the observation glass. The transformed woman inside stood still, smoothing a hand over the gleaming curtain of her hair, adjusting a pleat on her trousers like it was second nature. There was something unnerving about how smoothly the new version fit—like the past had always been headed here.

Bertha watched Camille out of the corner of her eye. The other woman’s jaw flexed once, then stilled.

“I mean… yeah,” Camille said slowly. “Yeah. Let’s keep going. I just—” She trailed off, brows drawing together. “I don’t know what to do next. She looks so... composed.”

“That’s okay,” Bertha replied. “We’ll try something subtle.”

Without waiting, she turned back to the console. Her fingers hovered briefly above the keys—then moved with a kind of quiet authority, like a pianist choosing the next progression.

She typed: *Eye shape: widen slightly. Tilt outer corners upward. Iris size +12%. Luster: increased. Color: forest green, ringed in gold. Overall effect: feline, alluring, precise.*

Then another line: *Add trait: modesty, outward and inward. Subtle prudishness. Reflected in personal taste, tone, gestures. Reinforce with aesthetic shifts: higher neckline, more coverage, understated elegance.*

She pressed execute.

The chamber shimmered again.

Camille blinked. “What’d you—”

“You’ll see,” Bertha said, watching the light fade.

Inside, Nicolle hadn’t moved. But the differences revealed themselves with a slow, elegant precision, like a reveal in stages.

Her eyes, once plain hazel, were now deep forest green with a sharp gold ring—like sunlight through old glass. They looked... bigger, somehow. More alert. More private. There was a precision to them now, a catlike awareness, and when she blinked, it was slower, more deliberate. Watchful.

Her blouse had changed, too. The neckline had risen, now gently curved and high, soft gray silk buttoned to the collarbone. Sleeves reached her wrists. The silhouette wasn’t severe—just reserved. Tasteful. Her pants had become a touch looser, tailored to flow rather than hug. The nude pumps were replaced with dove-gray flats, elegant but restrained.

Even her posture had changed again. No less composed—but now with a hint of guardedness. A tucked-in formality. Where the first change had given her polish, this one gave her distance. A sense of privacy.

“She wouldn’t wear anything sleeveless,” Bertha said quietly. “Not anymore. Not unless it had a collar or structure. She says it’s about presentation. Dignity.”

Camille tilted her head. “She doesn’t even know, does she?”

“No,” Bertha said. “The memory edits rewrite the backstory. This Nicolle has always been a little reserved. Not uptight, exactly—just... particular. She’s the kind who raises an eyebrow if someone swears in front of children. She prefers things that don’t demand attention, but still imply control.”

Camille stared, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and unease. “And she chose none of that?”

Bertha’s smile was mild, unbothered. “Some changes suggest themselves.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle turned again, inspecting her reflection in the polished interior glass. Her expression was unreadable—neither pleased nor surprised, but thoughtful. As if she'd just remembered something she’d meant to do. Her fingertips lightly touched her collar, adjusting a nonexistent wrinkle. Her new eyes gleamed.

Bertha clicked her pen once more. “Eight changes left,” she said softly.

Camille didn’t answer. She just kept watching.