Our TG Captionpage 4
0 likes
login to like
Bertha’s eyes flicked from the screen to the woman in the chamber, then back again. Nicolle stood composed, her calm presence still radiating through the observation glass. The system’s hum had settled into an almost maternal rhythm, low and steady.
“Alright,” Bertha murmured, pen tapping against the metal rim of the console. “Let’s take her somewhere else. Something… warmer. Smaller. Quieter.”
Camille’s gaze narrowed. “You mean downgrade her?”
Bertha didn’t answer immediately. “Not a downgrade. A refinement.” Her fingers moved over the interface, drawing light across the screen in looping arcs. “Let’s make her the heart of the home. Domestic ideal. Perfect order, perpetual grace. Mid-century spirit. The kind of woman whose world begins and ends at the doorstep.”
Camille’s lips parted as if to reply, but then the air thickened—humming softly, the lights pulsing with a golden undertone.
The **Alteration Room** clouded. For a moment, Nicolle’s silhouette seemed to fade—her edges softened, her posture dipped ever so slightly. The shimmer passed through her hair, her clothes, her stance, until the distortion smoothed out into something serenely whole.
When the glass cleared, the woman inside no longer looked like the matriarch of a neighborhood. She looked like the archetype of *comfort*.
Her dress had changed—powder blue cotton, cinched with a small apron tied neatly in front. Her hair curled inward, brushing her cheeks in soft, deliberate waves. Pearls rested at her throat; her shoes were polished but sensible. A faint scent of vanilla and starch seemed to hang in the air, though the room itself was sterile.
The monitors reconfigured without pause. Nicolle Taylor—homemaker. Her world now centered on her home: husband, daughter, linens folded into perfect squares, dinner ready at six. A life of polished surfaces and practiced smiles. Photos in frames showed picnics, bake sales, spotless living rooms. The digital records adjusted—no mention of the neighborhood board, no professional accolades. Her entire sphere of influence had drawn inward like a breath held too long.
Camille stared, her earlier smirk gone. “That’s—” she began, then stopped. The word she wanted seemed lost.
Bertha only tilted her head, observing. “It suits her, don’t you think? Some people are happiest when their edges are softened. When the world asks less.”
Nicolle, in the chamber, looked down at her hands. She flexed them lightly, smiled faintly to herself, then looked up at the mirror with that same mild, untroubled calm.
No awareness. No question. Just a moment’s pause, then nothing.
The hum receded.
Bertha made a note on the clipboard:
> *Trial 02 complete — Domestic template accepted seamlessly.*
Nine changes had become eight.
She lifted her gaze toward Camille, who was still watching the woman through the glass. The skepticism in her eyes had given way to something quieter—an uncertainty she couldn’t quite name.
“Eight left,” Bertha said softly. “We could stop here… or we could keep exploring.”
“Alright,” Bertha murmured, pen tapping against the metal rim of the console. “Let’s take her somewhere else. Something… warmer. Smaller. Quieter.”
Camille’s gaze narrowed. “You mean downgrade her?”
Bertha didn’t answer immediately. “Not a downgrade. A refinement.” Her fingers moved over the interface, drawing light across the screen in looping arcs. “Let’s make her the heart of the home. Domestic ideal. Perfect order, perpetual grace. Mid-century spirit. The kind of woman whose world begins and ends at the doorstep.”
Camille’s lips parted as if to reply, but then the air thickened—humming softly, the lights pulsing with a golden undertone.
The **Alteration Room** clouded. For a moment, Nicolle’s silhouette seemed to fade—her edges softened, her posture dipped ever so slightly. The shimmer passed through her hair, her clothes, her stance, until the distortion smoothed out into something serenely whole.
When the glass cleared, the woman inside no longer looked like the matriarch of a neighborhood. She looked like the archetype of *comfort*.
Her dress had changed—powder blue cotton, cinched with a small apron tied neatly in front. Her hair curled inward, brushing her cheeks in soft, deliberate waves. Pearls rested at her throat; her shoes were polished but sensible. A faint scent of vanilla and starch seemed to hang in the air, though the room itself was sterile.
The monitors reconfigured without pause. Nicolle Taylor—homemaker. Her world now centered on her home: husband, daughter, linens folded into perfect squares, dinner ready at six. A life of polished surfaces and practiced smiles. Photos in frames showed picnics, bake sales, spotless living rooms. The digital records adjusted—no mention of the neighborhood board, no professional accolades. Her entire sphere of influence had drawn inward like a breath held too long.
Camille stared, her earlier smirk gone. “That’s—” she began, then stopped. The word she wanted seemed lost.
Bertha only tilted her head, observing. “It suits her, don’t you think? Some people are happiest when their edges are softened. When the world asks less.”
Nicolle, in the chamber, looked down at her hands. She flexed them lightly, smiled faintly to herself, then looked up at the mirror with that same mild, untroubled calm.
No awareness. No question. Just a moment’s pause, then nothing.
The hum receded.
Bertha made a note on the clipboard:
> *Trial 02 complete — Domestic template accepted seamlessly.*
Nine changes had become eight.
She lifted her gaze toward Camille, who was still watching the woman through the glass. The skepticism in her eyes had given way to something quieter—an uncertainty she couldn’t quite name.
“Eight left,” Bertha said softly. “We could stop here… or we could keep exploring.”
What do you do?
Create your own Path!