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Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It stayed neat—pulled back tight—and she gave it a quick once-over before smoothing the sleeves of her lab coat. Everything was crisp, controlled, intentional. She had to look like she knew what she was doing, even if the crystalline cores humming behind the sealed panels were a mystery to her.
The chime rang. She stepped into the waiting room.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The nod. The small pleasantries. The walk down the flickering corridor. Nicolle’s cheerful chatter and Camille’s dry skepticism. All of it unfolded as usual.
But once Nicolle was sealed in the **Alteration Room** and Bertha slipped into the **Command Room**, the air shifted. The system lit up; Nicolle’s profile blinked onto the screen: forty-one, one daughter, married eighteen years. These details dissolved into malleable threads the moment Bertha touched the keys.
Camille leaned over her shoulder with a cynical scoff. “So what’s the trick today?”
Bertha didn’t look up. “Not a trick. Reality adjusts around the change. Smoothly.”
“And what are you picking for her? Another feel-good archetype?”
Bertha’s pen paused mid-tap. “No,” she said softly. “Something rooted. Something with conviction.”
Her eyes flicked over Nicolle’s profile, searching for a seam in her life, a hinge that would turn cleanly. And then she saw it—the quiet steadiness Nicolle carried, the gentleness, the underlying resolve.
“Yes,” Bertha murmured. “A conservative Christian author. One who writes about contemporary womanhood.”
Camille squinted. “Wait—what? That’s… oddly specific.”
“She’ll be a modest, polished public speaker,” Bertha continued, fingers already typing. “Deeply committed to cultural tradition. A respected voice in Christian circles. A woman whose faith shapes not just her life, but the lives orbiting it.”
Before Camille could retort, the chamber flickered. The glass fogged, pulsed, and cleared.
Nicolle stood inside—transformed.
Her blonde hair was fuller now, voluminous curls arranged with warm, practiced elegance. Her skin had a sun-kissed glow; her frame slimmer, poised. She wore a modest but vivid red dress with a tailored waist and soft sleeves, a pair of low heels, and a delicate gold cross at her throat, matching earrings that caught the chamber light. Her makeup was steady, meticulous—foundation smooth, eyes bright, lips a calm rose.
She held herself with the serene confidence of a woman who had spoken at countless church retreats and women’s conferences—a speaker who could command a room with a smile, whose modesty only sharpened her authority.
Bertha’s monitors updated in a single quiet sweep:
Nicolle Taylor—Christian memoirist and commentator on contemporary womanhood; author of *Blessed Roots*, *Graceful Strength*, and *Keeping the Hearth Lit*. Married to Daniel Taylor, pastor at Greenwood Fellowship Church. Known for her teachings on tradition, faithfulness, the sacred roles of wifehood and motherhood. A beloved voice to many Christian women seeking stability in modern times.
Her daughter Judy, seventeen, raised in a devout home—publicly polite, privately chafing in small, hidden rebellions.
Her life had always been this.
Camille stared. “She… she was like this the whole time?”
“Of course,” Bertha said, her voice calm, almost reverent. “Everyone knows her books.”
In the chamber, Nicolle tilted her head in mild curiosity. “Has the demonstration begun?” she asked, voice warm, polished, quietly commanding—like someone accustomed to speaking with purpose, but never arrogance.
“It’s finished,” Bertha said.
Nicolle smiled the serene smile of someone who had signed countless books after Sunday services. “Well, that was easy.”
Camille’s expression tightened—half awe, half discomfort, something sour and unsettled beneath her skepticism. “She’s… really different.”
“No,” Bertha corrected gently. “She’s exactly who she’s always been.”
She lifted her clipboard, pen poised, as the chamber lights settled back into their steady hum.
“Nine changes left,” she said softly. “Shall we continue?”
The chime rang. She stepped into the waiting room.
“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said. “Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”
The nod. The small pleasantries. The walk down the flickering corridor. Nicolle’s cheerful chatter and Camille’s dry skepticism. All of it unfolded as usual.
But once Nicolle was sealed in the **Alteration Room** and Bertha slipped into the **Command Room**, the air shifted. The system lit up; Nicolle’s profile blinked onto the screen: forty-one, one daughter, married eighteen years. These details dissolved into malleable threads the moment Bertha touched the keys.
Camille leaned over her shoulder with a cynical scoff. “So what’s the trick today?”
Bertha didn’t look up. “Not a trick. Reality adjusts around the change. Smoothly.”
“And what are you picking for her? Another feel-good archetype?”
Bertha’s pen paused mid-tap. “No,” she said softly. “Something rooted. Something with conviction.”
Her eyes flicked over Nicolle’s profile, searching for a seam in her life, a hinge that would turn cleanly. And then she saw it—the quiet steadiness Nicolle carried, the gentleness, the underlying resolve.
“Yes,” Bertha murmured. “A conservative Christian author. One who writes about contemporary womanhood.”
Camille squinted. “Wait—what? That’s… oddly specific.”
“She’ll be a modest, polished public speaker,” Bertha continued, fingers already typing. “Deeply committed to cultural tradition. A respected voice in Christian circles. A woman whose faith shapes not just her life, but the lives orbiting it.”
Before Camille could retort, the chamber flickered. The glass fogged, pulsed, and cleared.
Nicolle stood inside—transformed.
Her blonde hair was fuller now, voluminous curls arranged with warm, practiced elegance. Her skin had a sun-kissed glow; her frame slimmer, poised. She wore a modest but vivid red dress with a tailored waist and soft sleeves, a pair of low heels, and a delicate gold cross at her throat, matching earrings that caught the chamber light. Her makeup was steady, meticulous—foundation smooth, eyes bright, lips a calm rose.
She held herself with the serene confidence of a woman who had spoken at countless church retreats and women’s conferences—a speaker who could command a room with a smile, whose modesty only sharpened her authority.
Bertha’s monitors updated in a single quiet sweep:
Nicolle Taylor—Christian memoirist and commentator on contemporary womanhood; author of *Blessed Roots*, *Graceful Strength*, and *Keeping the Hearth Lit*. Married to Daniel Taylor, pastor at Greenwood Fellowship Church. Known for her teachings on tradition, faithfulness, the sacred roles of wifehood and motherhood. A beloved voice to many Christian women seeking stability in modern times.
Her daughter Judy, seventeen, raised in a devout home—publicly polite, privately chafing in small, hidden rebellions.
Her life had always been this.
Camille stared. “She… she was like this the whole time?”
“Of course,” Bertha said, her voice calm, almost reverent. “Everyone knows her books.”
In the chamber, Nicolle tilted her head in mild curiosity. “Has the demonstration begun?” she asked, voice warm, polished, quietly commanding—like someone accustomed to speaking with purpose, but never arrogance.
“It’s finished,” Bertha said.
Nicolle smiled the serene smile of someone who had signed countless books after Sunday services. “Well, that was easy.”
Camille’s expression tightened—half awe, half discomfort, something sour and unsettled beneath her skepticism. “She’s… really different.”
“No,” Bertha corrected gently. “She’s exactly who she’s always been.”
She lifted her clipboard, pen poised, as the chamber lights settled back into their steady hum.
“Nine changes left,” she said softly. “Shall we continue?”
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