Our TG Caption

The operations of the nameless, barely legal facility had become mind-numbingly dull, as Celine discovered in the uneventful days following their unofficial “opening.” Managing clunky equipment that looked like it had been yanked from a Cold War fallout shelter and dodging increasingly aggressive calls from collection agencies was beginning to wear thin. The only real breaks from the monotony came in the form of the occasional walk-in—curious locals or bored couples with a bit too much time. So when their first official, pre-booked appointment finally arrived, Celine was determined to make an impression.

Frank and Macy Hannah showed up at exactly noon. A picture of suburban mediocrity, the couple looked every bit the middle-class norm: forty-something, vaguely tired-looking, with a few grey hairs and the sort of weight gain that creeps in with PTA meetings and commuter traffic. But they weren’t unattractive. Past their prime, perhaps, but not past saving. They hadn’t paid a cent—Celine wasn’t legally allowed to charge anything anyway—but they were still promised the “full package.”

“Our neighbors had such great things to say about you,” Frank said as Celine led them toward the Testing Chamber. “We thought we’d treat ourselves a little.”

“Frank’s always spoiling me,” Macy chimed in, giving her husband a mock-slap on the shoulder.

“Anything for my special lady.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Want to go first, hon?”

“Of course! Ladies first!” she laughed as Celine opened the door to the Treatment Chamber.

Once inside the Control Room, Celine took a deep breath, adjusting the oversized lab goggles that kept slipping down her nose. She launched into her usual half-baked explanation—part pseudoscience, part conspiracy-theory word salad. Something about alternate realities, “quantum possibilities,” and the phrase “molecular intent harmonics,” which she’d made up after binge-watching a decade-old docuseries. Clients always had the same question anyway:

“So you can do… anything?”

She could, more or less. The hardware was janky and the CRT monitor hummed like a beehive, but it *worked*. Usually. While the ancient screen blinked its diagnostics to life, Celine studied Frank’s expression. The man was still struggling to process the implications. They always did. That moment of hesitation, that flicker of disbelief—Celine had seen it a dozen times before. Time to grease the wheels.

“How about we start with something classic?” Celine offered, fingers already pecking at the clacky keyboard. “Something that really makes her *pop*?”

And just like that, Macy began to change.

It started subtly: the way she stood shifted, spine straightening, posture perfect. Her features softened and sharpened all at once—cheekbones lifting, jaw refining, eyes growing larger and lashes longer. Her makeup was suddenly flawless, as though professionally done, accentuating a flawless complexion and eyes that sparkled with a warm amber hue. Her hair darkened into a glossy, voluminous brunette cascade that framed her face in perfectly styled waves, full of bounce and impossible shine.

Her figure reshaped dramatically, her modest middle-aged build blossoming into exaggerated, hourglass proportions. Her waist cinched inward like a wasp, hips curving out in defiant contrast. Her chest swelled outward—more than a few cup sizes—into a generous, lifted bust that tested the boundaries of propriety without crossing into cartoonish. Her outfit morphed along with her body: conservative slacks and blouse giving way to a fitted cocktail dress in bold cherry red, the kind of dress designed to attract attention and admiration in equal measure. Matching heels appeared on her feet, legs encased in sheer stockings with a subtle shimmer.

Her demeanor changed too. She tilted her head slightly and smiled in a way that was coy, polished—like someone who had always known the power of a good look and a better strut. Her memories adjusted accordingly: Macy now remembered a youth filled with pageants, dance recitals, and being the girl all the boys talked about. She still had her kids, her husband, her job—but now they orbited her, not the other way around. She had always had a flair for glamour, and her lifestyle had bent around it. She still cared for her family, but her vanity was no longer a guilty secret—it was a point of pride.

Frank stared, silent and still, as though trying to reconcile the woman before him with the one who had walked in beside him twenty minutes ago.

“This is…” he began, but didn’t finish. His eyes drifted from her legs to her lips to her lifted bust. There was awe in his face—but something else, too.

“She’s stunning,” Celine said, her lab coat askew and one of her shoelaces untied. “Classic bombshell—think ‘pageant queen meets real estate mogul’s second wife,’ but without the personality reset. She’s still your Macy. Just… a little more *glamorous.*”

Frank let out a slow breath, rubbing his belly through his stretched polo shirt. “It’s a bit much.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Celine assured him. “Some clients like to tone things down, some go further. Think of it as a… first coat of paint.”

“Yeah,” Frank murmured, still watching Macy preen through the glass. “Maybe it won’t feel so weird once I get my turn.”

“You can swap out any time,” Celine said, already prepping the system to power down for the switch.

“Hold on.”

Celine stopped. She looked back at Frank, who stood there shifting his weight, the wheels clearly turning.

“I think…” Frank hesitated, looking once more at his wife’s new curves, her confident pose, the way her lipstick caught the light. “I think I’d like to change something else.”

Celine didn’t move. She’d heard those words many times before—and knew exactly what they meant.

“Of course,” she said, grinning crookedly. “Let’s explore the options.”