Our TG Captionpage 4
0 likes
login to like
Certainly! Here's a rewritten version of your story with the requested change to Linda's transformation: she now has a background of working in a sports bar since she was 18, and is in uniform for a shift starting in 30 minutes. All references to the athleticism package have been removed:
---
The day-to-day operations of Build-A-Partner tended to be mind-numbingly boring, as Barton discovered in the days following their opening. The monotony of managing temperamental equipment and dodging calls from collection agencies was starting to take its toll; in fact, the only respite from the boredom came from the occasional customer that would wander in from off the street. They had at last managed to get their first ever scheduled appointment, and Barton was eager to impress. The business would continue hemorrhaging money if he didn’t build up a decent clientele, and the young scientist had been repeatedly reminded of his marketing shortcomings over the past few weeks.
John and Linda arrived at noon, a typical middle-class suburban white couple. They were closing in on middle age, both of them bearing a few wrinkles and grey hairs and carrying just a little bit of flab. Past their prime? Sure. But by no means were they frumpy or ugly. Payment had been upfront; $7500 for the full treatment on both of them, and Barton was more than happy to oblige.
“Our neighbors had nothing but good things to say about this place,” John explained as Barton led the couple towards the Testing Chamber. “We figured we would treat ourselves to something nice, y’know?”
“John is always spoiling me,” Linda said, reaching out to give her husband a playful slap on the shoulder.
“Anything for my special lady!” John leaned forward to give his wife a quick peck on the lips. “Would you like to go first, hun?”
“Of course! Ladies first!” She laughed as Barton opened the door to the sterile Treatment Chamber.
As soon as the two men entered the shielded Control Room, Barton took a deep breath and prepared to launch into his usual speech: alternate realities, the nature of his invention, and all the other baffling technical details. It was mostly filler, meant to build up to the one question that always came next:
“So you can do… anything?”
Barton had considered putting this all into a more polished format than the cheap pamphlets they offered in the lobby, but explaining the nuts and bolts of his machine too clearly could attract the wrong kind of attention. For now, it was safer to stay vague. The outdated control computer was already humming to life, its diagnostic reports flickering across the CRT monitor to let them know that everything was ready. John looked contemplative, like he was trying to process just how far-reaching this experience could be. Barton had seen the look before—clients always hesitated at first.
“How about something simple to start?” Barton offered, fingers dancing across the keys. “Let’s say Linda’s been working at a sports bar since she was eighteen. See what that looks like.”
Inside the Treatment Chamber, changes took hold instantly.
Linda’s expression shifted subtly, her posture relaxing into an air of practiced casualness. Her conservative blouse and drab pants shimmered briefly before morphing into a well-worn uniform: a snug, deep-cut tank top with the logo of a well-known sports bar chain stretched across her chest, paired with short black athletic shorts that hugged her hips. Her sneakers were scuffed from use, and a faded name tag—**LINDA – SHIFT LEAD**—hung loosely from her neckline. Her makeup was bolder, with winged eyeliner and a hint of gloss on her lips, and her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, strands slicked back like she had just finished a lunch rush.
Her figure adjusted as well—not dramatically, but in subtle ways. A little more definition in the legs from long hours on her feet. A slight tan from patio service. Her arms had the wiry tone of someone who carried trays for a living. A faint aroma of beer, fryer grease, and perfume seemed to cling to her now, even through the thick glass.
She checked a cheap digital watch on her wrist and muttered something under her breath about “getting back for the three o’clock crowd.” Her memories had already rearranged themselves to suit the narrative: she'd started working the bar as a part-time gig during community college, ended up enjoying the scene, and now held a full-time position as the most senior member of staff. A fixture of the place. The kind of woman who remembered every regular’s drink order and handled belligerent patrons with the flick of an eyebrow.
John blinked, taken aback. He stared through the observation window at this slightly different woman—familiar, yet undeniably changed. It was the same face, but carried with it a confidence and edge that hadn’t been there before. For a moment he couldn’t tell if he was impressed or confused.
Barton caught the look. He’d seen it enough times to recognize the signs: the customer unsure if they were falling behind their own partner’s new persona.
“Feelings of inadequacy are normal,” Barton said, trying to sound reassuring. “The change is more than just physical. Linda’s picked up fifteen years of dealing with football fans on game day—she knows how to handle herself.”
John laughed, a little sheepishly. He rubbed a hand over the small bulge at the front of his polo shirt, his voice quieter now. “Yeah, maybe it won’t be so bad once I get my turn in there.”
“You can swap places with your wife whenever you’re ready,” Barton replied, already moving to begin the power-down sequence so it would be safe for a new subject.
“Hold on.”
Barton paused, glancing over at John, who was shifting his weight back and forth, his expression clouded by indecision. Barton’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. They always hesitated right here, right before they admitted what they *really* wanted.
John exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a thought he’d been holding onto for too long.
“I think I’d like to change something else.”
---
Let me know if you'd like to continue the scene, or modify the direction further.
Of course. Here’s the continuation, with Barton acting unprompted to elevate Linda’s appearance—dramatically—while maintaining her age and backstory:
---
John’s voice trailed off as he stared at Linda through the thick glass. She was still adjusting her ponytail, completely unaware of the two men watching her, of the machine quietly humming behind the scenes of her reality. The uniform clung comfortably to her frame, and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other with the habitual ease of someone used to squeezing in a quick stretch between lunch and happy hour.
“I just… didn’t expect her to look so different,” John admitted.
Barton nodded slowly. “I get it. Sometimes even small changes cascade into something bigger than you anticipated.”
John’s silence stretched out longer than most clients’. He wasn’t recoiling. He wasn’t objecting. But he wasn’t *satisfied*, either. That, more than anything, got Barton’s gears turning.
He glanced back at the control screen, where Linda’s new metadata glowed in sterile green text:
**Occupation: Sports Bar Shift Lead**
**Experience: 22 years**
**Age: 44**
**Memory: Revised**
**Appearance: Adjusted (Occupational Fitness)**
Occupational fitness. Functional. Plausible. But it didn’t *turn heads.*
Barton didn’t ask for permission. He rarely did when it came to details like this. He reasoned that people didn’t come to Build-A-Partner to be *practical*. They came for something they couldn’t ask for out loud. Something they wouldn’t admit, even to themselves.
Besides—he was the expert.
He began typing.
Subtle algorithms kicked in first, evaluating proportions, posture, symmetry. Small changes snowballed quickly under Barton’s guidance: cheekbones lifted, jawline tightened. Skin tone evened and brightened, laugh lines and age spots remained—but now they framed her features like character, not wear. Her eyes deepened into a warm, intoxicating hazel with flecks of gold, thick lashes giving them a slow, magnetic pull. Her lips, touched with just the faintest pout, became fuller—but not cartoonish. Natural beauty turned cinematic.
The contours of her body shifted beneath the uniform. The swell of her hips was a touch more exaggerated, her waist just narrow enough to imply a decades-long dance with good genes and controlled indulgence. Her chest filled out the tank top in a way that made the fabric look like it had been made for her, while her legs—long, toned, and bronzed from just enough patio shifts under the sun—anchored her with a kind of casual sensuality that didn’t need explaining.
Barton kept her age. Forty-four, loud and clear. But now she looked *incredible* for forty-four. The kind of woman people would assume had a personal trainer, a flawless skincare routine, and more than a few jealous glances from younger coworkers. A walking contradiction: too beautiful not to be in magazines, yet still pouring drinks for Sunday crowds in scuffed sneakers.
“That’s…” John breathed, catching the change in real time as Linda idly adjusted her name tag and blew a stray hair from her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
Barton raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop typing. “You sure? Because you’re not saying stop.”
John didn’t answer. His eyes were glued to his wife. She looked over her shoulder briefly, checking a clock that wasn’t really there. She smiled to herself—unaware of the gravity of her own reflection in the observation glass.
“I didn’t make her younger,” Barton added, softly. “You’ll still recognize the woman you married. But now she’s someone other people won’t be able to look away from.”
The machine settled back into standby, the screen now displaying Linda’s updated profile:
**Name:** Linda
**Age:** 44
**Occupation:** Sports Bar Shift Lead
**Visual Profile:** High-Attractiveness Threshold (Unrealized Modeling Potential)
**Memory:** Consistent
John gave a faint, almost reluctant nod. “She looks… happy.”
Barton stepped back from the keyboard and folded his arms. “She is. And she always was. You just see it now.”
Inside the chamber, Linda stretched her arms behind her back, her tank top rising just enough to show a smooth, firm midriff. Her ponytail bounced as she walked in a lazy loop around the chamber, checking her watch again.
“Guess I’d better hurry,” she murmured. “Shift starts in thirty.”
She said it to no one in particular. To her, none of this was out of place.
John was still staring. Barton tilted his head.
“You want to go in next,” the scientist said. “Or… want me to keep going with her?”
---
Let me know how you'd like it to unfold next—John's transformation, Linda noticing something, or Barton pushing the envelope further.
---
The day-to-day operations of Build-A-Partner tended to be mind-numbingly boring, as Barton discovered in the days following their opening. The monotony of managing temperamental equipment and dodging calls from collection agencies was starting to take its toll; in fact, the only respite from the boredom came from the occasional customer that would wander in from off the street. They had at last managed to get their first ever scheduled appointment, and Barton was eager to impress. The business would continue hemorrhaging money if he didn’t build up a decent clientele, and the young scientist had been repeatedly reminded of his marketing shortcomings over the past few weeks.
John and Linda arrived at noon, a typical middle-class suburban white couple. They were closing in on middle age, both of them bearing a few wrinkles and grey hairs and carrying just a little bit of flab. Past their prime? Sure. But by no means were they frumpy or ugly. Payment had been upfront; $7500 for the full treatment on both of them, and Barton was more than happy to oblige.
“Our neighbors had nothing but good things to say about this place,” John explained as Barton led the couple towards the Testing Chamber. “We figured we would treat ourselves to something nice, y’know?”
“John is always spoiling me,” Linda said, reaching out to give her husband a playful slap on the shoulder.
“Anything for my special lady!” John leaned forward to give his wife a quick peck on the lips. “Would you like to go first, hun?”
“Of course! Ladies first!” She laughed as Barton opened the door to the sterile Treatment Chamber.
As soon as the two men entered the shielded Control Room, Barton took a deep breath and prepared to launch into his usual speech: alternate realities, the nature of his invention, and all the other baffling technical details. It was mostly filler, meant to build up to the one question that always came next:
“So you can do… anything?”
Barton had considered putting this all into a more polished format than the cheap pamphlets they offered in the lobby, but explaining the nuts and bolts of his machine too clearly could attract the wrong kind of attention. For now, it was safer to stay vague. The outdated control computer was already humming to life, its diagnostic reports flickering across the CRT monitor to let them know that everything was ready. John looked contemplative, like he was trying to process just how far-reaching this experience could be. Barton had seen the look before—clients always hesitated at first.
“How about something simple to start?” Barton offered, fingers dancing across the keys. “Let’s say Linda’s been working at a sports bar since she was eighteen. See what that looks like.”
Inside the Treatment Chamber, changes took hold instantly.
Linda’s expression shifted subtly, her posture relaxing into an air of practiced casualness. Her conservative blouse and drab pants shimmered briefly before morphing into a well-worn uniform: a snug, deep-cut tank top with the logo of a well-known sports bar chain stretched across her chest, paired with short black athletic shorts that hugged her hips. Her sneakers were scuffed from use, and a faded name tag—**LINDA – SHIFT LEAD**—hung loosely from her neckline. Her makeup was bolder, with winged eyeliner and a hint of gloss on her lips, and her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, strands slicked back like she had just finished a lunch rush.
Her figure adjusted as well—not dramatically, but in subtle ways. A little more definition in the legs from long hours on her feet. A slight tan from patio service. Her arms had the wiry tone of someone who carried trays for a living. A faint aroma of beer, fryer grease, and perfume seemed to cling to her now, even through the thick glass.
She checked a cheap digital watch on her wrist and muttered something under her breath about “getting back for the three o’clock crowd.” Her memories had already rearranged themselves to suit the narrative: she'd started working the bar as a part-time gig during community college, ended up enjoying the scene, and now held a full-time position as the most senior member of staff. A fixture of the place. The kind of woman who remembered every regular’s drink order and handled belligerent patrons with the flick of an eyebrow.
John blinked, taken aback. He stared through the observation window at this slightly different woman—familiar, yet undeniably changed. It was the same face, but carried with it a confidence and edge that hadn’t been there before. For a moment he couldn’t tell if he was impressed or confused.
Barton caught the look. He’d seen it enough times to recognize the signs: the customer unsure if they were falling behind their own partner’s new persona.
“Feelings of inadequacy are normal,” Barton said, trying to sound reassuring. “The change is more than just physical. Linda’s picked up fifteen years of dealing with football fans on game day—she knows how to handle herself.”
John laughed, a little sheepishly. He rubbed a hand over the small bulge at the front of his polo shirt, his voice quieter now. “Yeah, maybe it won’t be so bad once I get my turn in there.”
“You can swap places with your wife whenever you’re ready,” Barton replied, already moving to begin the power-down sequence so it would be safe for a new subject.
“Hold on.”
Barton paused, glancing over at John, who was shifting his weight back and forth, his expression clouded by indecision. Barton’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. They always hesitated right here, right before they admitted what they *really* wanted.
John exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a thought he’d been holding onto for too long.
“I think I’d like to change something else.”
---
Let me know if you'd like to continue the scene, or modify the direction further.
Of course. Here’s the continuation, with Barton acting unprompted to elevate Linda’s appearance—dramatically—while maintaining her age and backstory:
---
John’s voice trailed off as he stared at Linda through the thick glass. She was still adjusting her ponytail, completely unaware of the two men watching her, of the machine quietly humming behind the scenes of her reality. The uniform clung comfortably to her frame, and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other with the habitual ease of someone used to squeezing in a quick stretch between lunch and happy hour.
“I just… didn’t expect her to look so different,” John admitted.
Barton nodded slowly. “I get it. Sometimes even small changes cascade into something bigger than you anticipated.”
John’s silence stretched out longer than most clients’. He wasn’t recoiling. He wasn’t objecting. But he wasn’t *satisfied*, either. That, more than anything, got Barton’s gears turning.
He glanced back at the control screen, where Linda’s new metadata glowed in sterile green text:
**Occupation: Sports Bar Shift Lead**
**Experience: 22 years**
**Age: 44**
**Memory: Revised**
**Appearance: Adjusted (Occupational Fitness)**
Occupational fitness. Functional. Plausible. But it didn’t *turn heads.*
Barton didn’t ask for permission. He rarely did when it came to details like this. He reasoned that people didn’t come to Build-A-Partner to be *practical*. They came for something they couldn’t ask for out loud. Something they wouldn’t admit, even to themselves.
Besides—he was the expert.
He began typing.
Subtle algorithms kicked in first, evaluating proportions, posture, symmetry. Small changes snowballed quickly under Barton’s guidance: cheekbones lifted, jawline tightened. Skin tone evened and brightened, laugh lines and age spots remained—but now they framed her features like character, not wear. Her eyes deepened into a warm, intoxicating hazel with flecks of gold, thick lashes giving them a slow, magnetic pull. Her lips, touched with just the faintest pout, became fuller—but not cartoonish. Natural beauty turned cinematic.
The contours of her body shifted beneath the uniform. The swell of her hips was a touch more exaggerated, her waist just narrow enough to imply a decades-long dance with good genes and controlled indulgence. Her chest filled out the tank top in a way that made the fabric look like it had been made for her, while her legs—long, toned, and bronzed from just enough patio shifts under the sun—anchored her with a kind of casual sensuality that didn’t need explaining.
Barton kept her age. Forty-four, loud and clear. But now she looked *incredible* for forty-four. The kind of woman people would assume had a personal trainer, a flawless skincare routine, and more than a few jealous glances from younger coworkers. A walking contradiction: too beautiful not to be in magazines, yet still pouring drinks for Sunday crowds in scuffed sneakers.
“That’s…” John breathed, catching the change in real time as Linda idly adjusted her name tag and blew a stray hair from her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
Barton raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop typing. “You sure? Because you’re not saying stop.”
John didn’t answer. His eyes were glued to his wife. She looked over her shoulder briefly, checking a clock that wasn’t really there. She smiled to herself—unaware of the gravity of her own reflection in the observation glass.
“I didn’t make her younger,” Barton added, softly. “You’ll still recognize the woman you married. But now she’s someone other people won’t be able to look away from.”
The machine settled back into standby, the screen now displaying Linda’s updated profile:
**Name:** Linda
**Age:** 44
**Occupation:** Sports Bar Shift Lead
**Visual Profile:** High-Attractiveness Threshold (Unrealized Modeling Potential)
**Memory:** Consistent
John gave a faint, almost reluctant nod. “She looks… happy.”
Barton stepped back from the keyboard and folded his arms. “She is. And she always was. You just see it now.”
Inside the chamber, Linda stretched her arms behind her back, her tank top rising just enough to show a smooth, firm midriff. Her ponytail bounced as she walked in a lazy loop around the chamber, checking her watch again.
“Guess I’d better hurry,” she murmured. “Shift starts in thirty.”
She said it to no one in particular. To her, none of this was out of place.
John was still staring. Barton tilted his head.
“You want to go in next,” the scientist said. “Or… want me to keep going with her?”
---
Let me know how you'd like it to unfold next—John's transformation, Linda noticing something, or Barton pushing the envelope further.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!