Our TG Caption

Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the dulled metal of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was neat, tight, symmetrical—professional. She smoothed the sleeves of her lab coat, mandatory issue but tailored to flatter. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into hunter-green slacks offered a suggestion of taste beyond the sterile. Her belt was a narrow blush patent leather; her flats, toe-tipped in gold. A slim watch, gold studs, and clean nails completed the look. Nothing ostentatious—just the right tilt of polish. Just enough to say: *I notice things.*

At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She’d seen no use in finishing once she’d landed the job at **The Changegrounds: Free Trial**—a quiet satellite branch wedged between a dry cleaner and a vape shop. The flagship downtown gleamed with corporate sheen, but this place had its own rhythm. Quieter. Stranger. They offered free one-time alterations—a gateway drug to the deeper work. Reality editing, once science fiction, was now merely proprietary. Controlled. The shards—luminescent and pulsing faintly behind shielded panels—still creeped her out, but she didn’t need to understand them. She just had to make the results look good.

The chime rang.

Bertha stood, adjusted her sleeves, and moved into the waiting area.

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

The taller woman nodded. “That’s us.”

Camille Potts looked mid-thirties, maybe. Dark lipstick, cropped wool jacket, graphic tee, a crossbody slung like a weapon. She scanned the bland lobby like she might blog about it later.

Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, pale blue blouse, black jeans. Shoulder-length blonde hair clipped back. A jangle came from her tote as she shifted her weight.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said brightly, voice a touch too loud. “My friend said it completely changed her. Like, changed her life.”

Bertha smiled the small, professional kind. “Let’s get started.”

They moved down the corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Nicolle filled the silence—something about parking spaces, something about her daughter—while Camille followed quietly, boots tapping like punctuation.

In the **Alteration Room**, Nicolle stepped into the chamber. Bertha sealed the door and crossed to the **Command Room** across the hall, where the interface flickered awake. Nicolle’s profile populated on-screen: forty-one. Regional sales job. Married, one daughter—Judy, seventeen. Respectable, solid, beige.

Camille leaned in over Bertha’s shoulder. “So, how does it work?”

“Ten free changes,” Bertha said. “Style, demeanor, habits, memories. When she steps out, what’s changed becomes reality.”

Camille smirked. “I told her to do something fun. She’s been so… beige for years.”

Bertha tilted her head, scanning the presets. “Fun,” she echoed. “All right. Let’s make her… stay-at-home, then. Classic domestic shift. Out of the workforce, into the rhythm.”

Camille frowned. “Like, a housewife?”

Bertha smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

She entered the command. The chamber pulsed—a soft, breathing light. The hum settled. When it cleared, Nicolle stood where she had, but the transformation was complete.

Her outfit had morphed into something oddly vivid yet effortless: a fitted floral blouse in coral and turquoise tucked into high-waisted pink capris, cinched with a patent belt. Her hair, now fuller and brighter, brushed her shoulders in thick, buoyant waves. Gold hoops framed her face; lipstick too bold for her skin tone gleamed without apology. She was in wedge heels, pink toenails glinting. A faint scent of hair spray and citrus cleaner hung in the air.

She blinked once, slowly. Her expression had softened, but her focus seemed slightly diffused—as if someone had turned the world’s volume down just below comprehension.

Bertha jotted a note. “Homemaker subroutine active. Seamless memory integration. Cognitive simplification stable.”

Nicolle smiled faintly, dreamlike. “Oh—did I leave the dryer running?” she murmured to no one, smoothing her blouse. “Judy hates when I forget.”

“Her employment record’s gone,” Bertha observed. “She quit her sales job fifteen years ago. Now she makes little towel swans when she’s bored.”

Camille’s brow furrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“Watch.” Bertha tapped another key.

Nicolle reached up to adjust a nonexistent strand of hair, gaze distant but pleasant. Her mind had already rearranged itself around a new set of priorities: folding laundry, comparing fabric softeners, remembering to defrost the chicken. The idea of a career now sat somewhere far away, unreal and unnecessary. Her days were loops of mild chores and curated calm. Not content, exactly—just *settled*.

Bertha leaned back in her chair, amused. “She thinks she’s thriving,” she said softly. “Doesn’t even question it.”

Camille looked at Nicolle for a long moment, a flicker of something—pity, maybe—crossing her face. “She looks… happy,” she said finally. “In a Stepford kind of way.”

Bertha shrugged. “Depends what you call happiness.”

Nicolle smiled again inside the chamber, smoothing her blouse once more, her eyes glossy with the stillness of someone who no longer wondered about anything at all.

Bertha clicked her pen. “Nine changes left,” she said. “Want to keep going?”