Our TG Caption

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. The fabric was crisp, the fit precise. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks lent a trace of personality; her belt was a blush patent strip, her flats touched with gold at the toe. Subtle, but intentional.

She was eighteen, already out of high school—had left early when she landed the job at **The Changegrounds: Free Trial**, the small satellite branch of the downtown flagship. The real Changegrounds gleamed behind glass and polished branding. This one sat between a dry cleaner and a nail salon, its sign flickering. But it served its purpose. People came for their *free trial*: one complimentary set of reality edits. Most came back for something permanent.

Bertha didn’t pretend to understand the inner workings of the system—the crystalline cores behind sealed panels, the threads of light that hummed when activated. She only had to make it appealing. Clean. Convincing.

A chime rang from the front. She stood, straightened her coat, 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 nodded. “Yes, that’s us.”

Camille, thirty-three, carried herself with a sort of half-cynical poise—dark lipstick, cropped wool jacket, a crossbody bag slung with practiced carelessness. Her glance swept the space with mild amusement, as if suspecting the walls might hide something absurd.

Beside her, Nicolle smiled brightly. Mid-forties, soft-spoken but confident. Her pale blue button-down and black jeans were neat; her hair was clipped back, her tote bag gently clinking with unseen contents.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said. “My friend swore this place changed her life. I mean—literally changed her. She said she walked out a new woman.”

Bertha smiled politely and gestured them down the corridor. The overhead lights flickered as they walked. Nicolle chatted—about her daughter, about traffic, about how surreal it was that a strip mall could house something so “futuristic.” Camille said little, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the numbered doors.

Inside the **Alteration Room**, Bertha guided Nicolle into the chamber and sealed the door. Across the hall, in the **Command Room**, the system warmed to life, humming low. Nicolle’s profile appeared on-screen: forty-one, sales associate, one daughter, Judy, seventeen. Married eighteen years.

Camille leaned over her shoulder, uninvited. “So what’s the pitch this time? You give her a makeover, she feels special for ten minutes, then pays for the upgrade?”

Bertha’s tone was patient. “It’s real change. Lasts as long as she’s in the chamber. Once she steps out, the world adjusts around her. Everything reconfigures to make it true.”

Camille arched a brow. “Okay. So what’s she trying?”

Bertha tapped her pen against the clipboard, considering the profile, the posture Nicolle had carried in, the way her smile had been open but contained. “Something intellectual,” she said. “Exacting. Purposeful.”

Camille smirked. “Like what—CEO? Senator?”

Bertha shook her head. “A biochemist.”

Camille paused. “Huh.”

“Not the lab-rat stereotype,” Bertha added calmly. “Not neutral, not utilitarian. Someone brilliant and unapologetically *feminine*. She knows the science cold—enzymes, pathways, mechanisms—but she refuses to sand herself down to fit a box. Lipstick in the lab. Silk scarf over the lab coat. Precision with polish.”

Camille laughed once, surprised. “She sounds… opinionated.”

“She hates androgyny,” Bertha said simply. “Finds it lazy. Believes clarity—of data, of presentation—matters. She doesn’t dress to be taken seriously. She dresses because she already is.”

Camille studied the chamber door, then nodded. “All right. Let’s see that.”

Bertha entered the command, fingers precise. The air around the chamber shifted; the glass shimmered, a faint pulse like breath behind fog.

When the distortion cleared, Nicolle stood inside—changed in a way that made the *before* feel unfinished.

Her outfit had transformed into a fitted ivory blouse beneath a tailored lab coat that followed her waist without apology, the fabric high-quality, the cut unmistakably elegant. A pencil skirt fell just below the knee, paired with heeled pumps designed for long days, not compromise. A thin gold chain rested at her collarbone. Her hair was swept into a glossy, deliberate style—soft waves controlled with intention. Her makeup was immaculate: red lipstick, defined eyes, nothing accidental.

But it was her bearing that rewrote the room.

She stood like someone accustomed to command through competence. Not loud. Not cold. Her gaze was sharp, curious, measuring—used to interrogating results and people alike. This was a woman who corrected mistakes without raising her voice, who expected excellence and received it.

Bertha’s monitors updated seamlessly.

Nicolle Taylor—biochemist. Advanced degrees earned and defended without irony. Published. Consulted. Known for groundbreaking work and an equally well-known intolerance for being told to “tone it down.” She had debated funding boards in heels. She had fired assistants for sloppy pipetting and complimented interns on their eyeliner. The past rewrote itself with chemical elegance: labs instead of sales floors, conferences instead of trade shows, a life rearranged around discovery. Her daughter Judy had grown up in hallways that smelled faintly of ethanol and coffee, proud of a mother who proved that brilliance did not require disguise.

Camille stared. “She’s… always been this?”

Bertha smiled. “Obviously.”

Inside the chamber, Nicolle tilted her head, examining her reflection in the glass with professional interest. “So,” she said, voice crisp, confident, lightly amused. “Has it started yet?”

“It’s complete,” Bertha replied.

Nicolle considered that, then smoothed her sleeve, the gesture precise. “Interesting,” she said. “I don’t feel different.”

Camille exhaled slowly. “No,” she said. “You really wouldn’t.”

Bertha checked her clipboard, pen poised. “Nine changes left,” she said, approving. “Shall we continue?”