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Bertha Dreessen admired her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, adjusting her auburn ponytail for the tenth time that morning. Long, sleek, and impossibly shiny, it cascaded down her back like molten copper. She smirked, tugging her company-issued lab coat tighter around her waist. The coat was supposed to look “professional.” It mostly looked boring. Still, it was better than the polyester jumpsuits some techs wore.
Eighteen, barely, and already bored of authority, Bertha liked to think she’d gamed the system. She’d ditched high school the second she realized it had nothing left to teach her and landed this gig at **The Changegrounds: Free Trial** — the off-brand version of the real deal downtown. The flagship facility had marble floors, glass walls, and a waiting list a mile long. Here? Flickering lights, linoleum floors, and discount science. Still, the transformation pods worked — mostly. And they made for one hell of a show.
The front door beeped. Bertha rolled her eyes, plastered on a smile, and strutted toward the lobby. Her boots clicked sharp and confident against the tiles.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial,*” she purred, scanning the clipboard. “Denise Richards and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free session?”
Denise — bright-eyed, tall, caffeine-fueled — nodded so fast Bertha worried she’d pull something. “Yeah! We saw you guys on TikTok! Is it, like, actually real?”
Bertha’s gaze slid to Nicolle — and her smirk almost fell. The girl was a walking rainbow explosion. Tie-dye top, plaid skirt, glitter, plastic bracelets, and a unicorn pop socket. The kind of chaos that screamed *middle school sleepover,* not “future influencer.”
Bertha gestured for them to follow. Nicolle chattered nonstop down the hall, her bracelets clacking like castanets. Denise trailed behind, giggling. Bertha’s heels clicked in disciplined counterpoint.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha sealed the door. Then, slipping into the control booth across the hall, she activated the console. Nicolle’s profile flickered on the screen — sixteen, cheer squad, “trendsetter,” father in finance, mother into Pilates. A caricature, really.
Denise was practically vibrating. “So how does it work?”
Bertha leaned into the show. “You name it — the chamber alters appearance, personality, even memories. Ten free changes per trial.” She let her smile curl. “What do we want to do with our friend here?”
Denise laughed nervously. “Um… maybe make her more, like… responsible?”
Bertha’s eyebrows rose. “Responsible, huh?” She tapped the console, her grin turning slow and feline. “Let’s make her a *mom.*”
Before either girl could object, Bertha hit *Execute.*
The air in the chamber shimmered. A wave of heat, light, and quiet finality rolled through the glass. Nicolle froze mid-sentence — and then, piece by piece, everything about her shifted.
The tie-dye vanished first, replaced by a soft chambray shirt rolled to the elbows and worn jeans that hugged her curves without apology. Scuffed brown boots planted firmly beneath her, the stance of someone who’d spent years standing her ground. Her candy-colored hair melted into thick, sun-streaked honey waves, gathered in a loose braid over one shoulder. Light makeup — effortless, confident — replaced the glittery chaos.
A silver bracelet glinted at her wrist; a wedding band winked subtly beside it. A mother’s hands, capable but gentle, flexed as she blinked and looked around.
Her body was different — stronger, fuller, undeniably adult. The air around her carried warmth, authority, and an easy humor that filled the space before she even spoke.
“Well now,” Nicolle said, her voice rich and husky with laughter, “this ain’t the salon, is it, hon?”
Denise just stared, jaw slack.
Nicolle — or whatever reality had rewritten her into — smiled indulgently, planting one hand on her hip. “You okay, sweetheart? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe you just need breakfast — never skip that, trust me.” She chuckled, low and knowing. “Lord knows I forget sometimes too, between the errands, the dog, and keeping you kids alive.”
She winked, maternal but magnetic — the kind of woman who could fix a carburetor, outpace you in a jog, and still look radiant doing it.
Bertha couldn’t help it; fascination flickered across her face. This wasn’t the polished suburban matron she’d expected. This woman radiated *presence.* Power in denim, laughter in her voice, and a grounded ease that no lab machine could fake.
Reality sealed around her like wet paint drying. To everyone but Bertha and Denise, Nicolle had *always* been this way — the steady, confident, slightly rough-edged mom who volunteered at the booster club and called everyone “hon.”
“Now then,” Nicolle said, clapping her hands once, brisk but warm. “Which one of you two wants to explain what’s going on before I start organizing this place myself?”
Bertha stared, entranced. For the first time since she’d started at The Changegrounds, she wasn’t sure who was really running the room.
Eighteen, barely, and already bored of authority, Bertha liked to think she’d gamed the system. She’d ditched high school the second she realized it had nothing left to teach her and landed this gig at **The Changegrounds: Free Trial** — the off-brand version of the real deal downtown. The flagship facility had marble floors, glass walls, and a waiting list a mile long. Here? Flickering lights, linoleum floors, and discount science. Still, the transformation pods worked — mostly. And they made for one hell of a show.
The front door beeped. Bertha rolled her eyes, plastered on a smile, and strutted toward the lobby. Her boots clicked sharp and confident against the tiles.
“Welcome to *The Changegrounds: Free Trial,*” she purred, scanning the clipboard. “Denise Richards and Nicolle Taylor, here for a free session?”
Denise — bright-eyed, tall, caffeine-fueled — nodded so fast Bertha worried she’d pull something. “Yeah! We saw you guys on TikTok! Is it, like, actually real?”
Bertha’s gaze slid to Nicolle — and her smirk almost fell. The girl was a walking rainbow explosion. Tie-dye top, plaid skirt, glitter, plastic bracelets, and a unicorn pop socket. The kind of chaos that screamed *middle school sleepover,* not “future influencer.”
Bertha gestured for them to follow. Nicolle chattered nonstop down the hall, her bracelets clacking like castanets. Denise trailed behind, giggling. Bertha’s heels clicked in disciplined counterpoint.
Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha sealed the door. Then, slipping into the control booth across the hall, she activated the console. Nicolle’s profile flickered on the screen — sixteen, cheer squad, “trendsetter,” father in finance, mother into Pilates. A caricature, really.
Denise was practically vibrating. “So how does it work?”
Bertha leaned into the show. “You name it — the chamber alters appearance, personality, even memories. Ten free changes per trial.” She let her smile curl. “What do we want to do with our friend here?”
Denise laughed nervously. “Um… maybe make her more, like… responsible?”
Bertha’s eyebrows rose. “Responsible, huh?” She tapped the console, her grin turning slow and feline. “Let’s make her a *mom.*”
Before either girl could object, Bertha hit *Execute.*
The air in the chamber shimmered. A wave of heat, light, and quiet finality rolled through the glass. Nicolle froze mid-sentence — and then, piece by piece, everything about her shifted.
The tie-dye vanished first, replaced by a soft chambray shirt rolled to the elbows and worn jeans that hugged her curves without apology. Scuffed brown boots planted firmly beneath her, the stance of someone who’d spent years standing her ground. Her candy-colored hair melted into thick, sun-streaked honey waves, gathered in a loose braid over one shoulder. Light makeup — effortless, confident — replaced the glittery chaos.
A silver bracelet glinted at her wrist; a wedding band winked subtly beside it. A mother’s hands, capable but gentle, flexed as she blinked and looked around.
Her body was different — stronger, fuller, undeniably adult. The air around her carried warmth, authority, and an easy humor that filled the space before she even spoke.
“Well now,” Nicolle said, her voice rich and husky with laughter, “this ain’t the salon, is it, hon?”
Denise just stared, jaw slack.
Nicolle — or whatever reality had rewritten her into — smiled indulgently, planting one hand on her hip. “You okay, sweetheart? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe you just need breakfast — never skip that, trust me.” She chuckled, low and knowing. “Lord knows I forget sometimes too, between the errands, the dog, and keeping you kids alive.”
She winked, maternal but magnetic — the kind of woman who could fix a carburetor, outpace you in a jog, and still look radiant doing it.
Bertha couldn’t help it; fascination flickered across her face. This wasn’t the polished suburban matron she’d expected. This woman radiated *presence.* Power in denim, laughter in her voice, and a grounded ease that no lab machine could fake.
Reality sealed around her like wet paint drying. To everyone but Bertha and Denise, Nicolle had *always* been this way — the steady, confident, slightly rough-edged mom who volunteered at the booster club and called everyone “hon.”
“Now then,” Nicolle said, clapping her hands once, brisk but warm. “Which one of you two wants to explain what’s going on before I start organizing this place myself?”
Bertha stared, entranced. For the first time since she’d started at The Changegrounds, she wasn’t sure who was really running the room.
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