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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 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.
The front chime rang, flat and unhurried.
Bertha 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 looked about thirty, maybe thirty-one. Dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee—she radiated the sort of carefully curated defiance that suggested taste over rebellion. She scanned the space with faint skepticism, like she half expected to catch a boom mic dangling from the ceiling.
Beside her, Nicolle stood with a tote bag over one shoulder and a politely interested smile. Mid-forties, maybe a touch younger. Her pale blue button-down was pressed, and her jeans were the kind with stretch. A silver hair clip pinned her blond hair back, and her sneakers looked newer than the rest of her outfit.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, a little too loudly. “I mean, if it really does wedding prep, that’s wild. My friend said she felt completely transformed—like, glowy.”
Camille gave a skeptical snort. “Sure. Let’s get glowy.”
Bertha offered a mild smile and turned to lead them down the corridor. “The Free Trial includes two complimentary touch-ups. Most brides do hair and skin. Sometimes posture or poise.”
She didn’t bother elaborating.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead. Nicolle filled the space with light chatter—venue parking, seating charts, something about the floral arrangements arriving late. Camille stayed quiet, her boots clicking steadily, arms still crossed.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured toward the glass-paneled chamber. “You can both step inside. The changes will apply simultaneously.”
“Like a photobooth,” Nicolle joked, stepping in first.
“Except one where we don’t get to choose the filter,” Camille added, following.
Bertha sealed the chamber door behind them and crossed the hall into the Command Room. The monitors flared to life.
She reviewed their files—basic profiles, almost unfinished. Nicolle: forty-one, works in sales, married eighteen years, one daughter named Judy. Camille: thirty-three, graphic designer, single, socially restless. None of it would matter soon.
Bertha clicked into the override menu.
Two changes.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Random bridal archetypes,” she murmured, more to the machine than to herself. “Full rewrite. Activate.”
The chamber hummed—quiet at first, then resonant, as if it were remembering something it had done a thousand times before. The air shimmered inside the glass. A subtle warmth pulsed outward.
When it cleared, two women stood side by side, their postures relaxed, slightly formal, as if they were waiting for a stylist to return from the back room.
Nicolle was younger—thirty-seven, maybe. Her skin had taken on that pearlescent, bridal smoothness. Her hair, darker and glossier now, was sculpted into an elegant shellacked updo, not a strand out of place. She wore a classic sheath gown in cream silk, modestly cut with a bateau neckline and a graceful sweep train. A long veil trailed behind her, caught to her hair with delicate pearl pins. She wore a tasteful trio of gold: earrings, a bracelet, and a fine chain necklace with a diamond pendant. Her expression was serene—somewhere between composed and contemplative. There was a grace to how she stood, fingers loosely clasped in front of her gown’s midsection, as if posing for a final photograph before walking down the aisle.
Camille, beside her, was older now—thirty-nine, maybe forty—and she wore it like she’d earned it and then dared you to comment. Her body had shifted—curves more dramatic now, hips and bust balanced by a tightly cinched waist. Her strapless mermaid gown clung to her figure with structured precision, the satin gleaming under the overhead lights. The neckline dipped, artfully, the boning emphasizing cleavage with assertive intent. Her accessories were deliberate: chandelier earrings, stacked gold bangles, a slim chain around one thigh just visible through a slit in the gown’s hem. A tiara—sparkling, unapologetic—sat nestled in pin-straight hair that reached her lower back. Her lips were glossed and slightly parted, the faintest curve suggesting amusement or maybe anticipation.
Bertha regarded them through the glass. Something about their closeness had shifted, subtly recalibrated. They were no longer the forty-one-year-old saleswoman and her skeptical younger cousin. Their age difference was narrower now—four years at most—and they stood like women who had planned showers together, swapped fiancé horror stories, maybe fought over playlist vetoes. They were still cousins. Just different ones.
Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard.
“Nicolle Greene,” she said softly, as if confirming the system’s new file. “Bride of Steven Jameson. Mid-tier project manager, emotionally consistent. Met him through church friends. They’re getting married this afternoon in a converted art gallery near the water. Buffet reception. Classic first dance. She picked ‘At Last.’”
She turned to the next profile.
“Camille Potts. Bride of Johnny—no last name listed. Investment-adjacent. No one’s quite sure what he does, but he flies a lot. They’re marrying on the rooftop of a boutique hotel. It’ll start late and end later. Open bar. Unpredictable music choices. They met at a gallery show and made out in the coatroom before learning each other’s names.”
The chamber door released with a soft hiss.
Nicolle stepped out first, adjusting the fall of her veil over one shoulder. She looked up at Bertha with quiet expectation. “Are the touch-ups finished?”
Bertha nodded. “Just wrapped. You’re both good to go.”
Camille emerged next, heels clicking on the tile. She smiled lazily, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from her cheek. “This lighting is trash,” she said, almost fondly. “But whatever. I feel like a goddess.”
Bertha offered her best rehearsed smile. “You have just enough time to make it to your ceremonies.”
Nicolle nodded. “Steven hates when I’m late. He says it throws off his rhythm.”
Camille rolled her eyes playfully. “Johnny wouldn’t notice if I showed up mid-vows. He’s probably still getting a haircut.”
Bertha held the door open for them. The hallway lights flickered again.
“Enjoy the day,” she said.
The cousins stepped into the hall, gowns rustling, tiara and veil bobbing in opposite counterpoint. They didn’t look back. The air behind them shimmered for just a moment more—then stilled, as if nothing had happened at all.
---
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?”
Both women looked up. Nicolle smiled. “That’s us.”
They were cousins, close enough in age to pass for sisters. Nicolle was in her early forties, dressed comfortably in a blue button-down and black jeans, her blonde hair pulled back with a clip. Camille looked younger—early thirties, maybe—but with a sharper edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee.
“We signed up for a random one,” Camille added, glancing around. “Figured, what the hell. Shake things up.”
Bertha nodded. “Of course. You’ll both step into the chamber together, and the system will apply a randomized enhancement. It’s free, non-reversible, and perfectly safe. Once the change takes hold, your updated identities will feel seamless.”
Nicolle laughed nervously. “Seamless how?”
“Like you always were that way,” Bertha said, pleasantly. “No confusion, no gaps. You’ll still be you—just... reframed.”
The cousins exchanged a glance. Camille smirked. Nicolle gave a small shrug. Together, they followed Bertha down the hallway. The lights overhead flickered slightly as they passed. Nicolle chatted about traffic, about how weird the strip mall layout was. Camille stayed mostly quiet, eyeing the exit signs like a backup plan.
Bertha opened the door to the Alteration Room and gestured inside. The chamber, a large transparent cylinder surrounded by dull white tiles, pulsed faintly from within.
“You’ll step in together. Just relax—it’ll be over before you notice anything.”
The cousins exchanged another look. Camille winked. Nicolle laughed again. Together, they entered the chamber, and the door hissed closed.
Bertha stepped across the hall into the Command Room. The system booted with a soft whir, monitors flickering to life. Camille and Nicolle’s profiles loaded automatically. She glanced over the default settings, then tilted her head slightly.
Brides.
She keyed in the override manually. The system adjusted in real time.
Two beautiful brides.
One more timeless. One more suggestive. Each marrying a different man. Neither aware they’d ever been anything else.
Bertha smiled faintly. “Let’s give them a day to remember.”
She tapped the command. The screen shimmered. Energy laced the chamber in ribbons of refracted light.
When it cleared, two transformed women stood within the cylinder, bathed in soft white glow.
Nicolle was radiant—de-aged slightly, now mid-thirties. Her hair was a honeyed blonde, elegantly styled into a low chignon with soft tendrils framing her face. Her makeup was classic: flushed cheeks, a satin-pink lip, just enough eyeliner to make her eyes bright and warm. Her dress was traditional ivory lace, modest but flattering, nipped perfectly at the waist to accentuate her now-curvy hourglass figure. A sheer veil hung from a pearl comb, brushing her shoulders.
Camille, in contrast, looked a few years older than before—late thirties—but wore it like a seduction. Her black hair was curled in glossy waves, her lips painted a deep rose, and her eyes lined thick with smoky shimmer. Her dress was sleek and off-the-shoulder, hugging every curve in silk that bordered on scandalous. Her veil was pinned low, barely hiding the bare line of her back. Her heels sparkled faintly beneath the hem. She looked like she knew exactly what she was doing—and enjoyed it.
Both women wore diamond rings. Both held small, elegant bouquets. Both smiled softly, like women thinking of the men waiting for them.
Bertha watched as their body language shifted. Camille adjusted her neckline with a sly glance toward the window. Nicolle turned her head as if listening to distant music, then gently touched the pendant at her throat—her “something borrowed.”
She tapped the intercom. “How are we feeling?”
Nicolle blinked, her voice dreamy. “Is it done already?”
“You’re both ready,” Bertha said. “Your drivers will be waiting outside.”
Camille stepped out first, balancing her bouquet against her hip. “I still can’t believe Darren agreed to this. Said it was good luck to have a pre-ceremony touch-up.”
Nicolle followed, smoothing her skirt. “Trevor said the same thing. Tradition, but make it new.”
Bertha watched them walk out, backs straight, full of purpose. In their minds, they had always been brides-to-be, radiant and a little breathless on the morning of something grand. They had always had these curves, these gowns, these men. The world outside would greet them with smiles and petals.
She clicked her pen against the clipboard.
“Eight changes left,” she murmured to herself. “Maybe I’ll try something fun next time.”
---
Sure! Before rewriting the story with the specific transformation scenario you described, here are 15 clarifying questions to make sure the details and tone are exactly what you’re looking for:
---
### **Clarifying Questions About the Transformation:**
1. **What is the tone you're aiming for—comedic, dramatic, surreal, unsettling, romantic, or something else?**
2. **Should the brides (Nicolle and Camille) remember each other as cousins, or now believe they are unrelated strangers?**
3. **Do you want their internal memories to match their new appearances (i.e., fully believing they're 26 and about to get married), or should they still retain some of their original selves deep down?**
4. **What kind of wedding aesthetics are desired for Nicolle and Camille (e.g., elegant modern, rustic, extravagant, beachy, Gothic, Vegas-style)?**
5. **What types of personalities should Nicolle and Camille express after the change—subtle shifts or full rewrites?**
6. **Do the grooms exist in the story? If so, do you want them described, or is their presence just implied?**
7. **How explicit or suggestive can Camille’s “super sexy” bridal presentation be? Should it remain within tasteful, PG-13 bounds or push toward a more mature tone?**
8. **How should their outfits be described—focused on texture, fit, emotional impact, or more surreal, almost magical elements?**
9. **Is Bertha’s action to transform them intended as playful, experimental, mischievous, or with a deeper agenda?**
10. **Is the Changegrounds tech considered ethical or controversial in-universe, or is it taken for granted like cosmetic surgery?**
11. **Do Nicolle and Camille interact with Bertha after their transformation, or do they believe she’s part of their “wedding prep team”?**
12. **Are their voices, mannerisms, and speaking styles transformed as well to match the bridal personas?**
13. **Should the narration reflect Bertha’s perspective throughout (as in the original), or shift between characters or to third-person omniscient?**
14. **What level of surrealism or sci-fi detail do you want for the transformation scene itself—clinical, mysterious, theatrical?**
15. **Is this transformation permanent, or is there potential for the story to explore further changes or a return to their original selves?**
---
Let me know your answers (or preferences) for any or all of these, and I’ll begin the rewrite!
Great, thanks for the detailed answers. Here's a **rewritten version of your story** with the requested changes incorporated. It keeps Bertha’s perspective and tone but shifts the transformation to a **surreal, sensual, and clinical** scene in which **Nicolle and Camille, both age 26, are randomly transformed into brides** with full internal rewrites and new lives awaiting them.
---
**The Changegrounds: Free Trial**
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 two women stood. They looked like cousins: easy rapport, similar bone structure, different energies.
Nicolle—forties, modestly dressed, pale blue button-down and black jeans—gave a chipper nod. A tote bag swung from her shoulder, jangling softly. “Yup! That’s us.”
Camille—thirty-three, darker lipstick, cropped wool jacket, a leather crossbody—raised her brow like she’d just dared someone to impress her.
Bertha gave her standard professional smile. “We have something fun for you. A paired trial. You’ll enter the chamber together and receive a randomized transformation—completely harmless, of course. Full effect. Ten free changes total, or you can stop after one. It’s all reversible until you exit.”
Nicolle clapped once. “Let’s do it. We came to shake things up, didn’t we?”
Camille just smirked. “Sure. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
They followed Bertha down the hallway, lights flickering overhead. The chamber door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a softly glowing interior: curved glass walls, ringed with slim panels and faintly humming conduits.
“Just step inside, and relax,” Bertha said. “It’ll be over before you feel it.”
The door shut with a smooth seal. Across the hall, Bertha stepped into the Command Room and powered up the system. The screen flickered to life.
Both women’s profiles loaded—names, ages, a few baseline traits. Bertha tapped through them idly, then hovered her hand over the transformation panel.
She didn’t think too hard.
A few quick taps. **Age: 26. Form: bridal. Curve emphasis: hourglass++. Tone: wedding day, final prep. Subtext integration: total.**
She hit execute.
The room shimmered, then pulsed. The display flattened into clean, clinical readouts: tissue harmonization, memory overwrite, emotional calibration. For several seconds, both silhouettes glowed indistinctly. Then—
Clarity.
Inside the chamber now stood two women in wedding gowns, and nothing of the original cousins remained but DNA.
Nicolle was the first to stir. She adjusted the sleeve of her gown with a practiced gesture, then touched her earring as if confirming its place. Her dress was elegant—silk crepe, off-the-shoulder, with a structured bodice that gave way to a narrow column skirt. A delicate row of pearl buttons ran down her spine. The veil was short, cathedral-trimmed and attached with a minimalist comb. Her skin had a soft glow, her body shaped with a sculptural grace: cinched waist, generous curves, perfect posture.
She smoothed her hips unconsciously, checking for creases. “My stylist said this stop would be quick,” she murmured. “Just a last-minute alignment before vows.”
Her voice was gentle, intelligent, slightly dreamy. She looked out at Bertha through the observation glass and smiled, calm and luminous.
Across from her, Camille’s energy burned hotter.
Her dress was less modest: backless, halter-style, clingy satin with a thigh slit that dared. It was beach-wedding chic—bright ivory with shimmering undertones. Her curves were dramatic, her chest full and displayed proudly. Her lips were glossy coral, parted as she adjusted one strap, fingers trailing slowly over her own shoulder.
She looked every bit the center of her own ceremony. Tan lines peeked from the edge of her bodice. Her hair was long and tousled, pinned back only enough to stay out of her face. A sheer garter peaked from the slit of her dress. She shifted her weight with lazy confidence, one heel resting high.
“God, I hope they don’t mess with my lipstick,” she said aloud, almost to herself. “Mike loves this shade.”
Her voice was smoky, low, vaguely teasing. Then she caught Nicolle’s eye and grinned. “Still wild that we’re getting married on the same day, huh?”
Nicolle returned the smile—soft, nostalgic. “It’s poetic, really. Us growing up together, and now…”
Bertha raised a brow and clicked her pen against the clipboard.
**New records populated:**
* **Nicolle Taylor**, 26. Schoolteacher-turned-urban bride. Marrying Calvin. Organized, emotionally intelligent, loves modern design and scented candles.
* **Camille Potts**, 26. Fitness model-turned-beach bride. Marrying Mike. Flirty, impulsive, loves dirty jokes and strong cocktails.
They believed they’d been cousins since birth. They believed they were both 26. They believed they'd always been these women.
Bertha leaned back, examining her work. “They think I’m part of the bridal prep team,” she muttered to herself.
In the chamber, Camille adjusted the bodice of her gown, tilting her hips with idle sensuality, a heat in her eyes even when she was just standing. Nicolle stood tall beside her, radiant and calm, with a serene elegance like she'd stepped from a bridal magazine.
Ten free changes.
Bertha watched them through the glass.
She tapped her pen twice against the monitor.
Then smiled.
“Next?”
--
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.
She glanced at the schedule on her screen. Two entries, one session. Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts. Signed up together for a joint trial—unusual, but not unheard of. “Random alteration” checked as the request. Most people at least hinted at a preference.
Bertha smiled faintly. She liked the ones who left it up to her.
The front chime sounded. She stood, adjusted her coat again, and stepped into the waiting room.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller of the two women raised a hand. “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. Her gaze flicked around the waiting room with the same faint amusement Bertha had seen before—like she half-expected a camera crew to pop out from behind a ficus.
Nicolle, in contrast, was mid-forties, modestly dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her blonde hair was clipped back, her makeup minimal. She had a soft laugh and a tote bag that jingled with keys or change or something else too practical to notice.
“Random change?” Bertha confirmed, double-checking the screen. “Both of you?”
Camille gave a casual shrug. “Why not. We’ve got time to kill.”
“I’m excited,” Nicolle added, her voice easygoing, cheerful. “It’s like one of those makeover shows, but more… sci-fi.”
Bertha led them down the corridor. The lights flickered softly overhead as Nicolle chatted about traffic, Camille’s upcoming trip, and how weird it was to find something like this next to a dry cleaner. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, boots clicking faintly with each step.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured to the chamber. “You’ll both step in. Ten changes total, shared between you. First one will be random, as requested.”
The cousins exchanged a glance, then stepped inside the chamber together. Bertha closed the door behind them and walked across the hall to the Command Room. She brought the system online. The monitors flickered. Two profiles loaded. Nicolle: 46, in sales, married. Camille: 33, freelance design work, single. That would all be irrelevant in a moment.
Bertha tapped her fingers lightly against the console, then tilted her head. “Let’s go big,” she murmured. “Wedding day. Both of them.”
She entered the commands—age reduction to 26, full wardrobe, body morph, memory overwrite. Nicolle would become a timelessly modern bride, elegant and serene. Camille—more of a super sexy bride, bold, flirtatious, the kind that turned heads on a catwalk. Their timelines would reshape gently around the idea that they'd been brought in for pre-ceremony "touch-ups." They wouldn't suspect a thing.
Bertha hit execute.
The chamber shimmered.
When the light cleared, two transformed women stood within the glass-paneled booth.
Nicolle now wore a minimalist white gown of soft matte satin, its clean lines hugging her newly curvaceous hourglass figure. The neckline dipped in a graceful V, matched by an open back and a whisper-thin train. Her skin glowed with a hint of dewy makeup; her hair was styled in a modern chignon threaded with pearl pins. She wore no veil, just understated drop earrings and ivory heels that peeked out with each small, graceful step. Her posture was calm and poised, as if she had been waiting to say "I do" her whole life.
Beside her, Camille looked like a bridal magazine centerfold—if the theme was “bold and unapologetically hot.” Her lace-trimmed mermaid gown was fitted to showcase her now exaggerated curves, clinging tightly before flaring at the knees. A deep sweetheart neckline and off-shoulder sleeves framed her bare collarbone and glossy skin. Her hair was long, cascading in artful waves, with a sheer veil tucked at the crown. Glossy lips, winged eyeliner, diamond studs, and stilettos completed the look. She shifted her weight easily onto one hip, hands on her waist like she knew exactly how good she looked.
In the chamber, the two women looked around—only vaguely puzzled.
Nicolle’s brows knit gently. “Were we… already done? That was quick.”
Bertha clicked the intercom. “You’re good to go. Minor aesthetic refinements only. We didn't need the full session—just a polish.”
Nicolle smiled, hands smoothing her gown over her hips. “It feels perfect. Honestly. Just how I imagined.”
“Same,” Camille agreed, voice a little huskier now, playfully tugging her veil forward. “You guys really know what you’re doing. My fiancé’s gonna lose it when he sees this.”
“Right before mine passes out,” Nicolle said with a soft laugh. “I can't believe I almost didn’t come.”
--
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.
She heard the chime from the front and rose smoothly, clipboard in hand. Another free trial. Two names this time.
She stepped into the waiting room. “Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, giving a polite, practiced smile. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
“Yup,” Camille said. She was the younger of the two, thirty-three, with sharp eyes and a sardonic edge. A cropped wool jacket hugged her frame, her lips painted oxblood dark. Nicolle, taller and older, smiled warmly in greeting. Pale blue button-down, black jeans, blonde hair pulled back with a clip. A tote bag bumped gently against her hip with each step.
“We signed up together,” Nicolle added. “My cousin convinced me. Said it’d be fun.”
Bertha nodded. “Right this way.”
The hallway buzzed faintly, overhead lights flickering with that low electric murmur peculiar to aging strip malls. The Changegrounds: Free Trial was just a branch, tucked beside a dry cleaner and an abandoned phone repair shop. Still, the tech inside was real. The kind of tech most people didn’t understand—but definitely felt.
Bertha led them into the Alteration Room. “Standard trial,” she explained. “You step inside the chamber together. You’ll receive a one-time randomized change. Nothing dangerous. You’ll stay inside during the shift.”
Camille gave Nicolle a playful nudge. “Hope we don’t end up with beards.”
Bertha only smiled faintly and closed the chamber door.
Across the hall, she settled into the Command Room, monitors flickering to life. Both women’s profiles loaded. Nicolle—forty-five, sales rep, married, one daughter. Camille—thirty-three, freelance marketing, single.
Bertha tilted her head, considering them for a moment. Then she keyed in the sequence herself.
Brides.
Both of them.
She began to type. **Primary parameters:** wedding day, age twenty-six, separate weddings, each woman marrying someone different. **Appearance shift:** pronounced hourglass figures. Nicolle—timeless, refined elegance. A modern bridal ballgown with contemporary lines and fine detailing. Camille—bold, confident, sex-forward. A designer gown cut on the diagonal, leaving one leg bare.
**Cognition modifier:** Both believe they were briefly sent to The Changegrounds on their wedding day for “special final touch-ups.” No memory of prior visit. No memory of prior selves.
She hit execute.
The chamber shimmered, light bending inward like water pulled down a drain. When it cleared, Nicolle and Camille stood in place, transformed.
Nicolle was radiant in a structured ballgown, ivory satin with sheer paneling at the collarbone and delicate embroidery climbing across the bodice like vines. Her chestnut hair was gathered into a low twist, elegant but effortless. A long veil was pinned at the crown of her head, floating behind her like a whisper. She was twenty-six, and it showed not just in the smoothness of her skin but in the ease with which she held herself. She adjusted the skirt slightly, then folded her hands in front of her, glancing around.
Camille, beside her, was electric. Her gown shimmered like liquid silver, cut dramatically from shoulder to hip, exposing one long, toned leg. A thigh-high slit carried around to the back in a cascading train. Her hair was loose and curled, wild with intention. Her lips were glossy, her eye makeup sharp. She looked like a model ready to destroy a runway and kiss her groom between flashbulbs.
“I feel like I blinked,” Camille said, adjusting her dress and glancing down at her bare leg with approval. “Did anything happen yet?”
Bertha stepped into view, smiling. “Just finishing up some calibrations,” she said smoothly.
Nicolle turned slightly, eyes warm and distracted. “Is there time for one last adjustment? I want to make sure my dress stays smooth across the waist when I walk. It’s stunning, just…” She trailed off, admiring the fine drape of her fabric in the mirror. Her tone was calm, precise—like someone used to planning beautiful things carefully.
Camille chuckled. “You’re gonna outshine me and I’m not even mad.”
“Oh, please,” Nicolle said, laughing softly. “You look like you stepped out of Vogue.”
Bertha watched the pair, pleased. Their postures had shifted subtly—shoulders squared, voices softened but confident. They had become versions of themselves sharpened into archetype: elegance and edge, grace and glamour.
Neither woman noticed anything strange. To them, this had always been the plan. A quick stop before the biggest day of their lives. A gentle little touch-up, just as their grooms waited patiently nearby.
Bertha clicked her pen once, lightly.
“Everything’s perfect,” she said. “You’re both ready.”
And they were.
--
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 two women stepped forward together.
“Yes,” Camille said. “That’s us.”
Camille was thirty-three, all attitude and edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee. Nicolle, mid-forties, was more reserved—pale blue button-down, black jeans, and a tote that jingled faintly when she moved. Her blonde hair was pulled back with a clip, minimal makeup softening her features.
“I’m curious about how it works,” Nicolle said as they followed Bertha down the corridor. “It’s supposed to be random, right? Like a lucky dip?”
“Sort of,” Bertha replied. “You get something unexpected, but tailored. Think of it like… your best self, through a different lens.”
The hallway lights flickered. Nicolle kept chatting—about her daughter, about how weird the strip mall parking lot was. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, heels clicking as she walked.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured toward the chamber. “Just step inside,” she said, cheerful but unreadable.
Both cousins exchanged a glance, shrugged, and stepped into the glass enclosure.
Bertha shut the door behind them and crossed to the Command Room. The monitors flickered to life. Two profiles appeared: Nicolle Taylor. Age: 46. Works in sales. One daughter. Camille Potts. Age: 33. Freelance marketing. Single. Both records hovered in midair like pending drafts.
Bertha tilted her head, then slowly smiled. The glow from the control panel lit her features from below.
“Let’s make it a wedding day,” she murmured. “They won’t remember the original appointment. Just a quick stop before their ceremonies. Final touches.”
She tapped commands one by one.
**Primary changes:**
* Age: 26.
* Status: Engaged, ceremonies imminent.
* Personality retention: Yes, with contextual realignment.
* Physical: Hourglass symmetry, radiant complexions.
* Apparel: Bridal couture.
Nicolle’s entry became a vision of timeless modern elegance—an off-the-shoulder ballgown with architectural pleating and a structured bodice, fitted through the waist before flaring in soft waves to the floor. Her hair was darker now, pulled into a voluminous low chignon with a pearl comb. Her makeup was polished but soft: a rose-gold glow, a barely-there liner. She looked like she had stepped from the pages of a high-end bridal editorial.
Camille’s transformation was sharper. Her dress was a sculpted, asymmetrical marvel—diagonal cut, one shoulder bare, the hem climbing high over a long, bare leg. The fabric shimmered like liquid ivory. Her figure was bold, defined, powerful. Her lips were a deeper plum, her eyes winged just enough to say *don’t mistake me for sweet*. Hair slicked into a sleek updo, earrings like miniature chandeliers. The confident tilt of her head said it all.
Inside the chamber, the shimmer faded.
Nicolle glanced down at her dress and gave a tiny, delighted gasp. “Isn’t this the place they said would do touch-ups? I think they adjusted the fit a little. It’s perfect now.”
Camille ran a hand along her hip, admiring the clean lines in the mirror. “They nailed the shape,” she said. “Seriously. I don’t remember booking it, but I’m not complaining.”
Neither of them looked confused. They weren’t wondering why they were here. In their minds, this was always part of the plan—an exclusive stop before their separate ceremonies, just to make sure everything was flawless.
Bertha leaned back in her chair, satisfied.
Nicolle adjusted her veil, then turned toward the observation window. Her smile was serene, radiant with anticipation.
Camille checked her reflection one last time, then shot a wink toward the glass.
Bertha didn’t say anything. Just clicked her pen and made a note on the clipboard.
The system reset behind her, humming faintly.
There was no need to mention how many changes remained.
The front chime rang, flat and unhurried.
Bertha 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 looked about thirty, maybe thirty-one. Dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee—she radiated the sort of carefully curated defiance that suggested taste over rebellion. She scanned the space with faint skepticism, like she half expected to catch a boom mic dangling from the ceiling.
Beside her, Nicolle stood with a tote bag over one shoulder and a politely interested smile. Mid-forties, maybe a touch younger. Her pale blue button-down was pressed, and her jeans were the kind with stretch. A silver hair clip pinned her blond hair back, and her sneakers looked newer than the rest of her outfit.
“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, a little too loudly. “I mean, if it really does wedding prep, that’s wild. My friend said she felt completely transformed—like, glowy.”
Camille gave a skeptical snort. “Sure. Let’s get glowy.”
Bertha offered a mild smile and turned to lead them down the corridor. “The Free Trial includes two complimentary touch-ups. Most brides do hair and skin. Sometimes posture or poise.”
She didn’t bother elaborating.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead. Nicolle filled the space with light chatter—venue parking, seating charts, something about the floral arrangements arriving late. Camille stayed quiet, her boots clicking steadily, arms still crossed.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured toward the glass-paneled chamber. “You can both step inside. The changes will apply simultaneously.”
“Like a photobooth,” Nicolle joked, stepping in first.
“Except one where we don’t get to choose the filter,” Camille added, following.
Bertha sealed the chamber door behind them and crossed the hall into the Command Room. The monitors flared to life.
She reviewed their files—basic profiles, almost unfinished. Nicolle: forty-one, works in sales, married eighteen years, one daughter named Judy. Camille: thirty-three, graphic designer, single, socially restless. None of it would matter soon.
Bertha clicked into the override menu.
Two changes.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Random bridal archetypes,” she murmured, more to the machine than to herself. “Full rewrite. Activate.”
The chamber hummed—quiet at first, then resonant, as if it were remembering something it had done a thousand times before. The air shimmered inside the glass. A subtle warmth pulsed outward.
When it cleared, two women stood side by side, their postures relaxed, slightly formal, as if they were waiting for a stylist to return from the back room.
Nicolle was younger—thirty-seven, maybe. Her skin had taken on that pearlescent, bridal smoothness. Her hair, darker and glossier now, was sculpted into an elegant shellacked updo, not a strand out of place. She wore a classic sheath gown in cream silk, modestly cut with a bateau neckline and a graceful sweep train. A long veil trailed behind her, caught to her hair with delicate pearl pins. She wore a tasteful trio of gold: earrings, a bracelet, and a fine chain necklace with a diamond pendant. Her expression was serene—somewhere between composed and contemplative. There was a grace to how she stood, fingers loosely clasped in front of her gown’s midsection, as if posing for a final photograph before walking down the aisle.
Camille, beside her, was older now—thirty-nine, maybe forty—and she wore it like she’d earned it and then dared you to comment. Her body had shifted—curves more dramatic now, hips and bust balanced by a tightly cinched waist. Her strapless mermaid gown clung to her figure with structured precision, the satin gleaming under the overhead lights. The neckline dipped, artfully, the boning emphasizing cleavage with assertive intent. Her accessories were deliberate: chandelier earrings, stacked gold bangles, a slim chain around one thigh just visible through a slit in the gown’s hem. A tiara—sparkling, unapologetic—sat nestled in pin-straight hair that reached her lower back. Her lips were glossed and slightly parted, the faintest curve suggesting amusement or maybe anticipation.
Bertha regarded them through the glass. Something about their closeness had shifted, subtly recalibrated. They were no longer the forty-one-year-old saleswoman and her skeptical younger cousin. Their age difference was narrower now—four years at most—and they stood like women who had planned showers together, swapped fiancé horror stories, maybe fought over playlist vetoes. They were still cousins. Just different ones.
Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard.
“Nicolle Greene,” she said softly, as if confirming the system’s new file. “Bride of Steven Jameson. Mid-tier project manager, emotionally consistent. Met him through church friends. They’re getting married this afternoon in a converted art gallery near the water. Buffet reception. Classic first dance. She picked ‘At Last.’”
She turned to the next profile.
“Camille Potts. Bride of Johnny—no last name listed. Investment-adjacent. No one’s quite sure what he does, but he flies a lot. They’re marrying on the rooftop of a boutique hotel. It’ll start late and end later. Open bar. Unpredictable music choices. They met at a gallery show and made out in the coatroom before learning each other’s names.”
The chamber door released with a soft hiss.
Nicolle stepped out first, adjusting the fall of her veil over one shoulder. She looked up at Bertha with quiet expectation. “Are the touch-ups finished?”
Bertha nodded. “Just wrapped. You’re both good to go.”
Camille emerged next, heels clicking on the tile. She smiled lazily, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from her cheek. “This lighting is trash,” she said, almost fondly. “But whatever. I feel like a goddess.”
Bertha offered her best rehearsed smile. “You have just enough time to make it to your ceremonies.”
Nicolle nodded. “Steven hates when I’m late. He says it throws off his rhythm.”
Camille rolled her eyes playfully. “Johnny wouldn’t notice if I showed up mid-vows. He’s probably still getting a haircut.”
Bertha held the door open for them. The hallway lights flickered again.
“Enjoy the day,” she said.
The cousins stepped into the hall, gowns rustling, tiara and veil bobbing in opposite counterpoint. They didn’t look back. The air behind them shimmered for just a moment more—then stilled, as if nothing had happened at all.
---
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?”
Both women looked up. Nicolle smiled. “That’s us.”
They were cousins, close enough in age to pass for sisters. Nicolle was in her early forties, dressed comfortably in a blue button-down and black jeans, her blonde hair pulled back with a clip. Camille looked younger—early thirties, maybe—but with a sharper edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee.
“We signed up for a random one,” Camille added, glancing around. “Figured, what the hell. Shake things up.”
Bertha nodded. “Of course. You’ll both step into the chamber together, and the system will apply a randomized enhancement. It’s free, non-reversible, and perfectly safe. Once the change takes hold, your updated identities will feel seamless.”
Nicolle laughed nervously. “Seamless how?”
“Like you always were that way,” Bertha said, pleasantly. “No confusion, no gaps. You’ll still be you—just... reframed.”
The cousins exchanged a glance. Camille smirked. Nicolle gave a small shrug. Together, they followed Bertha down the hallway. The lights overhead flickered slightly as they passed. Nicolle chatted about traffic, about how weird the strip mall layout was. Camille stayed mostly quiet, eyeing the exit signs like a backup plan.
Bertha opened the door to the Alteration Room and gestured inside. The chamber, a large transparent cylinder surrounded by dull white tiles, pulsed faintly from within.
“You’ll step in together. Just relax—it’ll be over before you notice anything.”
The cousins exchanged another look. Camille winked. Nicolle laughed again. Together, they entered the chamber, and the door hissed closed.
Bertha stepped across the hall into the Command Room. The system booted with a soft whir, monitors flickering to life. Camille and Nicolle’s profiles loaded automatically. She glanced over the default settings, then tilted her head slightly.
Brides.
She keyed in the override manually. The system adjusted in real time.
Two beautiful brides.
One more timeless. One more suggestive. Each marrying a different man. Neither aware they’d ever been anything else.
Bertha smiled faintly. “Let’s give them a day to remember.”
She tapped the command. The screen shimmered. Energy laced the chamber in ribbons of refracted light.
When it cleared, two transformed women stood within the cylinder, bathed in soft white glow.
Nicolle was radiant—de-aged slightly, now mid-thirties. Her hair was a honeyed blonde, elegantly styled into a low chignon with soft tendrils framing her face. Her makeup was classic: flushed cheeks, a satin-pink lip, just enough eyeliner to make her eyes bright and warm. Her dress was traditional ivory lace, modest but flattering, nipped perfectly at the waist to accentuate her now-curvy hourglass figure. A sheer veil hung from a pearl comb, brushing her shoulders.
Camille, in contrast, looked a few years older than before—late thirties—but wore it like a seduction. Her black hair was curled in glossy waves, her lips painted a deep rose, and her eyes lined thick with smoky shimmer. Her dress was sleek and off-the-shoulder, hugging every curve in silk that bordered on scandalous. Her veil was pinned low, barely hiding the bare line of her back. Her heels sparkled faintly beneath the hem. She looked like she knew exactly what she was doing—and enjoyed it.
Both women wore diamond rings. Both held small, elegant bouquets. Both smiled softly, like women thinking of the men waiting for them.
Bertha watched as their body language shifted. Camille adjusted her neckline with a sly glance toward the window. Nicolle turned her head as if listening to distant music, then gently touched the pendant at her throat—her “something borrowed.”
She tapped the intercom. “How are we feeling?”
Nicolle blinked, her voice dreamy. “Is it done already?”
“You’re both ready,” Bertha said. “Your drivers will be waiting outside.”
Camille stepped out first, balancing her bouquet against her hip. “I still can’t believe Darren agreed to this. Said it was good luck to have a pre-ceremony touch-up.”
Nicolle followed, smoothing her skirt. “Trevor said the same thing. Tradition, but make it new.”
Bertha watched them walk out, backs straight, full of purpose. In their minds, they had always been brides-to-be, radiant and a little breathless on the morning of something grand. They had always had these curves, these gowns, these men. The world outside would greet them with smiles and petals.
She clicked her pen against the clipboard.
“Eight changes left,” she murmured to herself. “Maybe I’ll try something fun next time.”
---
Sure! Before rewriting the story with the specific transformation scenario you described, here are 15 clarifying questions to make sure the details and tone are exactly what you’re looking for:
---
### **Clarifying Questions About the Transformation:**
1. **What is the tone you're aiming for—comedic, dramatic, surreal, unsettling, romantic, or something else?**
2. **Should the brides (Nicolle and Camille) remember each other as cousins, or now believe they are unrelated strangers?**
3. **Do you want their internal memories to match their new appearances (i.e., fully believing they're 26 and about to get married), or should they still retain some of their original selves deep down?**
4. **What kind of wedding aesthetics are desired for Nicolle and Camille (e.g., elegant modern, rustic, extravagant, beachy, Gothic, Vegas-style)?**
5. **What types of personalities should Nicolle and Camille express after the change—subtle shifts or full rewrites?**
6. **Do the grooms exist in the story? If so, do you want them described, or is their presence just implied?**
7. **How explicit or suggestive can Camille’s “super sexy” bridal presentation be? Should it remain within tasteful, PG-13 bounds or push toward a more mature tone?**
8. **How should their outfits be described—focused on texture, fit, emotional impact, or more surreal, almost magical elements?**
9. **Is Bertha’s action to transform them intended as playful, experimental, mischievous, or with a deeper agenda?**
10. **Is the Changegrounds tech considered ethical or controversial in-universe, or is it taken for granted like cosmetic surgery?**
11. **Do Nicolle and Camille interact with Bertha after their transformation, or do they believe she’s part of their “wedding prep team”?**
12. **Are their voices, mannerisms, and speaking styles transformed as well to match the bridal personas?**
13. **Should the narration reflect Bertha’s perspective throughout (as in the original), or shift between characters or to third-person omniscient?**
14. **What level of surrealism or sci-fi detail do you want for the transformation scene itself—clinical, mysterious, theatrical?**
15. **Is this transformation permanent, or is there potential for the story to explore further changes or a return to their original selves?**
---
Let me know your answers (or preferences) for any or all of these, and I’ll begin the rewrite!
Great, thanks for the detailed answers. Here's a **rewritten version of your story** with the requested changes incorporated. It keeps Bertha’s perspective and tone but shifts the transformation to a **surreal, sensual, and clinical** scene in which **Nicolle and Camille, both age 26, are randomly transformed into brides** with full internal rewrites and new lives awaiting them.
---
**The Changegrounds: Free Trial**
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 two women stood. They looked like cousins: easy rapport, similar bone structure, different energies.
Nicolle—forties, modestly dressed, pale blue button-down and black jeans—gave a chipper nod. A tote bag swung from her shoulder, jangling softly. “Yup! That’s us.”
Camille—thirty-three, darker lipstick, cropped wool jacket, a leather crossbody—raised her brow like she’d just dared someone to impress her.
Bertha gave her standard professional smile. “We have something fun for you. A paired trial. You’ll enter the chamber together and receive a randomized transformation—completely harmless, of course. Full effect. Ten free changes total, or you can stop after one. It’s all reversible until you exit.”
Nicolle clapped once. “Let’s do it. We came to shake things up, didn’t we?”
Camille just smirked. “Sure. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
They followed Bertha down the hallway, lights flickering overhead. The chamber door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a softly glowing interior: curved glass walls, ringed with slim panels and faintly humming conduits.
“Just step inside, and relax,” Bertha said. “It’ll be over before you feel it.”
The door shut with a smooth seal. Across the hall, Bertha stepped into the Command Room and powered up the system. The screen flickered to life.
Both women’s profiles loaded—names, ages, a few baseline traits. Bertha tapped through them idly, then hovered her hand over the transformation panel.
She didn’t think too hard.
A few quick taps. **Age: 26. Form: bridal. Curve emphasis: hourglass++. Tone: wedding day, final prep. Subtext integration: total.**
She hit execute.
The room shimmered, then pulsed. The display flattened into clean, clinical readouts: tissue harmonization, memory overwrite, emotional calibration. For several seconds, both silhouettes glowed indistinctly. Then—
Clarity.
Inside the chamber now stood two women in wedding gowns, and nothing of the original cousins remained but DNA.
Nicolle was the first to stir. She adjusted the sleeve of her gown with a practiced gesture, then touched her earring as if confirming its place. Her dress was elegant—silk crepe, off-the-shoulder, with a structured bodice that gave way to a narrow column skirt. A delicate row of pearl buttons ran down her spine. The veil was short, cathedral-trimmed and attached with a minimalist comb. Her skin had a soft glow, her body shaped with a sculptural grace: cinched waist, generous curves, perfect posture.
She smoothed her hips unconsciously, checking for creases. “My stylist said this stop would be quick,” she murmured. “Just a last-minute alignment before vows.”
Her voice was gentle, intelligent, slightly dreamy. She looked out at Bertha through the observation glass and smiled, calm and luminous.
Across from her, Camille’s energy burned hotter.
Her dress was less modest: backless, halter-style, clingy satin with a thigh slit that dared. It was beach-wedding chic—bright ivory with shimmering undertones. Her curves were dramatic, her chest full and displayed proudly. Her lips were glossy coral, parted as she adjusted one strap, fingers trailing slowly over her own shoulder.
She looked every bit the center of her own ceremony. Tan lines peeked from the edge of her bodice. Her hair was long and tousled, pinned back only enough to stay out of her face. A sheer garter peaked from the slit of her dress. She shifted her weight with lazy confidence, one heel resting high.
“God, I hope they don’t mess with my lipstick,” she said aloud, almost to herself. “Mike loves this shade.”
Her voice was smoky, low, vaguely teasing. Then she caught Nicolle’s eye and grinned. “Still wild that we’re getting married on the same day, huh?”
Nicolle returned the smile—soft, nostalgic. “It’s poetic, really. Us growing up together, and now…”
Bertha raised a brow and clicked her pen against the clipboard.
**New records populated:**
* **Nicolle Taylor**, 26. Schoolteacher-turned-urban bride. Marrying Calvin. Organized, emotionally intelligent, loves modern design and scented candles.
* **Camille Potts**, 26. Fitness model-turned-beach bride. Marrying Mike. Flirty, impulsive, loves dirty jokes and strong cocktails.
They believed they’d been cousins since birth. They believed they were both 26. They believed they'd always been these women.
Bertha leaned back, examining her work. “They think I’m part of the bridal prep team,” she muttered to herself.
In the chamber, Camille adjusted the bodice of her gown, tilting her hips with idle sensuality, a heat in her eyes even when she was just standing. Nicolle stood tall beside her, radiant and calm, with a serene elegance like she'd stepped from a bridal magazine.
Ten free changes.
Bertha watched them through the glass.
She tapped her pen twice against the monitor.
Then smiled.
“Next?”
--
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.
She glanced at the schedule on her screen. Two entries, one session. Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts. Signed up together for a joint trial—unusual, but not unheard of. “Random alteration” checked as the request. Most people at least hinted at a preference.
Bertha smiled faintly. She liked the ones who left it up to her.
The front chime sounded. She stood, adjusted her coat again, and stepped into the waiting room.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The taller of the two women raised a hand. “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. Her gaze flicked around the waiting room with the same faint amusement Bertha had seen before—like she half-expected a camera crew to pop out from behind a ficus.
Nicolle, in contrast, was mid-forties, modestly dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her blonde hair was clipped back, her makeup minimal. She had a soft laugh and a tote bag that jingled with keys or change or something else too practical to notice.
“Random change?” Bertha confirmed, double-checking the screen. “Both of you?”
Camille gave a casual shrug. “Why not. We’ve got time to kill.”
“I’m excited,” Nicolle added, her voice easygoing, cheerful. “It’s like one of those makeover shows, but more… sci-fi.”
Bertha led them down the corridor. The lights flickered softly overhead as Nicolle chatted about traffic, Camille’s upcoming trip, and how weird it was to find something like this next to a dry cleaner. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, boots clicking faintly with each step.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured to the chamber. “You’ll both step in. Ten changes total, shared between you. First one will be random, as requested.”
The cousins exchanged a glance, then stepped inside the chamber together. Bertha closed the door behind them and walked across the hall to the Command Room. She brought the system online. The monitors flickered. Two profiles loaded. Nicolle: 46, in sales, married. Camille: 33, freelance design work, single. That would all be irrelevant in a moment.
Bertha tapped her fingers lightly against the console, then tilted her head. “Let’s go big,” she murmured. “Wedding day. Both of them.”
She entered the commands—age reduction to 26, full wardrobe, body morph, memory overwrite. Nicolle would become a timelessly modern bride, elegant and serene. Camille—more of a super sexy bride, bold, flirtatious, the kind that turned heads on a catwalk. Their timelines would reshape gently around the idea that they'd been brought in for pre-ceremony "touch-ups." They wouldn't suspect a thing.
Bertha hit execute.
The chamber shimmered.
When the light cleared, two transformed women stood within the glass-paneled booth.
Nicolle now wore a minimalist white gown of soft matte satin, its clean lines hugging her newly curvaceous hourglass figure. The neckline dipped in a graceful V, matched by an open back and a whisper-thin train. Her skin glowed with a hint of dewy makeup; her hair was styled in a modern chignon threaded with pearl pins. She wore no veil, just understated drop earrings and ivory heels that peeked out with each small, graceful step. Her posture was calm and poised, as if she had been waiting to say "I do" her whole life.
Beside her, Camille looked like a bridal magazine centerfold—if the theme was “bold and unapologetically hot.” Her lace-trimmed mermaid gown was fitted to showcase her now exaggerated curves, clinging tightly before flaring at the knees. A deep sweetheart neckline and off-shoulder sleeves framed her bare collarbone and glossy skin. Her hair was long, cascading in artful waves, with a sheer veil tucked at the crown. Glossy lips, winged eyeliner, diamond studs, and stilettos completed the look. She shifted her weight easily onto one hip, hands on her waist like she knew exactly how good she looked.
In the chamber, the two women looked around—only vaguely puzzled.
Nicolle’s brows knit gently. “Were we… already done? That was quick.”
Bertha clicked the intercom. “You’re good to go. Minor aesthetic refinements only. We didn't need the full session—just a polish.”
Nicolle smiled, hands smoothing her gown over her hips. “It feels perfect. Honestly. Just how I imagined.”
“Same,” Camille agreed, voice a little huskier now, playfully tugging her veil forward. “You guys really know what you’re doing. My fiancé’s gonna lose it when he sees this.”
“Right before mine passes out,” Nicolle said with a soft laugh. “I can't believe I almost didn’t come.”
--
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.
She heard the chime from the front and rose smoothly, clipboard in hand. Another free trial. Two names this time.
She stepped into the waiting room. “Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, giving a polite, practiced smile. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
“Yup,” Camille said. She was the younger of the two, thirty-three, with sharp eyes and a sardonic edge. A cropped wool jacket hugged her frame, her lips painted oxblood dark. Nicolle, taller and older, smiled warmly in greeting. Pale blue button-down, black jeans, blonde hair pulled back with a clip. A tote bag bumped gently against her hip with each step.
“We signed up together,” Nicolle added. “My cousin convinced me. Said it’d be fun.”
Bertha nodded. “Right this way.”
The hallway buzzed faintly, overhead lights flickering with that low electric murmur peculiar to aging strip malls. The Changegrounds: Free Trial was just a branch, tucked beside a dry cleaner and an abandoned phone repair shop. Still, the tech inside was real. The kind of tech most people didn’t understand—but definitely felt.
Bertha led them into the Alteration Room. “Standard trial,” she explained. “You step inside the chamber together. You’ll receive a one-time randomized change. Nothing dangerous. You’ll stay inside during the shift.”
Camille gave Nicolle a playful nudge. “Hope we don’t end up with beards.”
Bertha only smiled faintly and closed the chamber door.
Across the hall, she settled into the Command Room, monitors flickering to life. Both women’s profiles loaded. Nicolle—forty-five, sales rep, married, one daughter. Camille—thirty-three, freelance marketing, single.
Bertha tilted her head, considering them for a moment. Then she keyed in the sequence herself.
Brides.
Both of them.
She began to type. **Primary parameters:** wedding day, age twenty-six, separate weddings, each woman marrying someone different. **Appearance shift:** pronounced hourglass figures. Nicolle—timeless, refined elegance. A modern bridal ballgown with contemporary lines and fine detailing. Camille—bold, confident, sex-forward. A designer gown cut on the diagonal, leaving one leg bare.
**Cognition modifier:** Both believe they were briefly sent to The Changegrounds on their wedding day for “special final touch-ups.” No memory of prior visit. No memory of prior selves.
She hit execute.
The chamber shimmered, light bending inward like water pulled down a drain. When it cleared, Nicolle and Camille stood in place, transformed.
Nicolle was radiant in a structured ballgown, ivory satin with sheer paneling at the collarbone and delicate embroidery climbing across the bodice like vines. Her chestnut hair was gathered into a low twist, elegant but effortless. A long veil was pinned at the crown of her head, floating behind her like a whisper. She was twenty-six, and it showed not just in the smoothness of her skin but in the ease with which she held herself. She adjusted the skirt slightly, then folded her hands in front of her, glancing around.
Camille, beside her, was electric. Her gown shimmered like liquid silver, cut dramatically from shoulder to hip, exposing one long, toned leg. A thigh-high slit carried around to the back in a cascading train. Her hair was loose and curled, wild with intention. Her lips were glossy, her eye makeup sharp. She looked like a model ready to destroy a runway and kiss her groom between flashbulbs.
“I feel like I blinked,” Camille said, adjusting her dress and glancing down at her bare leg with approval. “Did anything happen yet?”
Bertha stepped into view, smiling. “Just finishing up some calibrations,” she said smoothly.
Nicolle turned slightly, eyes warm and distracted. “Is there time for one last adjustment? I want to make sure my dress stays smooth across the waist when I walk. It’s stunning, just…” She trailed off, admiring the fine drape of her fabric in the mirror. Her tone was calm, precise—like someone used to planning beautiful things carefully.
Camille chuckled. “You’re gonna outshine me and I’m not even mad.”
“Oh, please,” Nicolle said, laughing softly. “You look like you stepped out of Vogue.”
Bertha watched the pair, pleased. Their postures had shifted subtly—shoulders squared, voices softened but confident. They had become versions of themselves sharpened into archetype: elegance and edge, grace and glamour.
Neither woman noticed anything strange. To them, this had always been the plan. A quick stop before the biggest day of their lives. A gentle little touch-up, just as their grooms waited patiently nearby.
Bertha clicked her pen once, lightly.
“Everything’s perfect,” she said. “You’re both ready.”
And they were.
--
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 two women stepped forward together.
“Yes,” Camille said. “That’s us.”
Camille was thirty-three, all attitude and edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee. Nicolle, mid-forties, was more reserved—pale blue button-down, black jeans, and a tote that jingled faintly when she moved. Her blonde hair was pulled back with a clip, minimal makeup softening her features.
“I’m curious about how it works,” Nicolle said as they followed Bertha down the corridor. “It’s supposed to be random, right? Like a lucky dip?”
“Sort of,” Bertha replied. “You get something unexpected, but tailored. Think of it like… your best self, through a different lens.”
The hallway lights flickered. Nicolle kept chatting—about her daughter, about how weird the strip mall parking lot was. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, heels clicking as she walked.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured toward the chamber. “Just step inside,” she said, cheerful but unreadable.
Both cousins exchanged a glance, shrugged, and stepped into the glass enclosure.
Bertha shut the door behind them and crossed to the Command Room. The monitors flickered to life. Two profiles appeared: Nicolle Taylor. Age: 46. Works in sales. One daughter. Camille Potts. Age: 33. Freelance marketing. Single. Both records hovered in midair like pending drafts.
Bertha tilted her head, then slowly smiled. The glow from the control panel lit her features from below.
“Let’s make it a wedding day,” she murmured. “They won’t remember the original appointment. Just a quick stop before their ceremonies. Final touches.”
She tapped commands one by one.
**Primary changes:**
* Age: 26.
* Status: Engaged, ceremonies imminent.
* Personality retention: Yes, with contextual realignment.
* Physical: Hourglass symmetry, radiant complexions.
* Apparel: Bridal couture.
Nicolle’s entry became a vision of timeless modern elegance—an off-the-shoulder ballgown with architectural pleating and a structured bodice, fitted through the waist before flaring in soft waves to the floor. Her hair was darker now, pulled into a voluminous low chignon with a pearl comb. Her makeup was polished but soft: a rose-gold glow, a barely-there liner. She looked like she had stepped from the pages of a high-end bridal editorial.
Camille’s transformation was sharper. Her dress was a sculpted, asymmetrical marvel—diagonal cut, one shoulder bare, the hem climbing high over a long, bare leg. The fabric shimmered like liquid ivory. Her figure was bold, defined, powerful. Her lips were a deeper plum, her eyes winged just enough to say *don’t mistake me for sweet*. Hair slicked into a sleek updo, earrings like miniature chandeliers. The confident tilt of her head said it all.
Inside the chamber, the shimmer faded.
Nicolle glanced down at her dress and gave a tiny, delighted gasp. “Isn’t this the place they said would do touch-ups? I think they adjusted the fit a little. It’s perfect now.”
Camille ran a hand along her hip, admiring the clean lines in the mirror. “They nailed the shape,” she said. “Seriously. I don’t remember booking it, but I’m not complaining.”
Neither of them looked confused. They weren’t wondering why they were here. In their minds, this was always part of the plan—an exclusive stop before their separate ceremonies, just to make sure everything was flawless.
Bertha leaned back in her chair, satisfied.
Nicolle adjusted her veil, then turned toward the observation window. Her smile was serene, radiant with anticipation.
Camille checked her reflection one last time, then shot a wink toward the glass.
Bertha didn’t say anything. Just clicked her pen and made a note on the clipboard.
The system reset behind her, humming faintly.
There was no need to mention how many changes remained.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!