Our TG Caption

The day-to-day operations of Build-A-Partner tended to be mind-numbingly boring, as Barton discovered in the days following their opening. The monotony of managing temperamental equipment and dodging calls from collection agencies was starting to take its toll; in fact, the only respite from the boredom came from the occasional customer who would wander in off the street. They had at last managed to get their first ever scheduled appointment, and Barton was eager to impress. The business would continue hemorrhaging money if he didn’t build up a decent clientele, and the young scientist had been repeatedly reminded of his marketing shortcomings over the past few weeks.

John and Linda arrived at noon, a typical middle-class suburban white couple. They were closing in on middle age, both of them bearing a few wrinkles and grey hairs and carrying just a little bit of flab. Past their prime? Sure. But by no means were they frumpy or unattractive. Payment had been upfront; $7500 for the full treatment on both of them, and Barton was more than happy to oblige.

“Our neighbors had nothing but good things to say about this place,” John explained as Barton led the couple toward the Testing Chamber. “We figured we would treat ourselves to something nice, y’know?”

“John is always spoiling me,” Linda said, reaching out to give her husband a playful slap on the shoulder.

“Anything for my special lady!” John leaned forward to give his wife a quick peck on the lips. “Would you like to go first, hun?”

“Of course! Ladies first!” She laughed as Barton opened the door to the sterile Treatment Chamber.

As soon as the two men entered the shielded Control Room, Barton took a quick inhale, preparing to launch into his prepared speech—alternate realities, the nature of his invention, all of the boring technical details that preempted the inevitable first question that every client asked:

“So you can do… anything?”

Barton had briefly considered condensing all of this into something more informative than the pamphlets offered in the lobby, but detailing the nature of his prized invention would undoubtedly draw the wrong kind of attention. The outdated control computer was already humming to life, with diagnostic reports blinking across the CRT monitor letting them know that everything was in working order. John seemed like he needed a minute to think, to process the implications of what he had just been told… and Barton needed to warm up the machine anyway. They were looking at Linda through the reinforced observation window, conflict playing out across her husband’s face; sometimes the clients needed a little push in the right direction to get over their inherent distrust of super-science.

“How about we try something more… refined?” Barton suggested, fingers already tapping away at the keyboard. “Ever wonder what Linda would be like if she were, say, a tenured professor at a major university?”

There was no dramatic melting or warping—just a slow, seamless shift in Linda’s bearing. Her expression changed first, her eyes narrowing slightly, gaining a kind of cool intelligence and quiet confidence. Her hair adjusted subtly, falling into a neat, dark chestnut bob with stylish tortoiseshell glasses resting lightly on the bridge of her nose. Her outfit morphed into something elegant but intellectual: a cream silk blouse tucked into a high-waisted charcoal skirt that hugged her hips just right, a pair of sleek leather boots rising up her calves. A scarf looped neatly around her neck, and a smart watch glinted on her wrist. It was a look that said: I give keynotes *and* turn heads.

Her figure remained womanly but was subtly enhanced—more toned, less soft, refined rather than reshaped. Her breasts lifted slightly, supported more by posture and well-fitted clothing than by any overt augmentation. Her curves were intelligent, poised curves; academic chic with a touch of seduction. A pair of pearl earrings completed the look.

Inside, her memories reordered: the sales job became a short-lived detour after grad school. She recalled years spent in conference rooms and lecture halls, late nights editing academic journals, the occasional guest appearance on a podcast discussing economic policy or behavioral science. The woman in the Testing Chamber had published books. She had opinions on Kant and Post-Keynesian theory. She had once been invited to speak at Davos.

John stared, blinking slowly, as if trying to reconcile the familiar warmth of his wife with the composed, captivating intellectual now standing on the other side of the glass. She looked like someone you'd see featured in a New Yorker profile—brilliant, stylish, almost intimidating in her self-assurance. There was still a softness in her smile, but it came laced with irony now, as if she knew ten things about the world you didn’t.

John adjusted the collar of his polo shirt uncomfortably, his eyes tracing the lines of his wife’s altered appearance. Barton recognized the look.

“Feeling a little underqualified?” he said, flashing a sympathetic smile. “Totally normal. This Linda could probably chair a department and write a bestselling book on cognitive behavioral models of trust. But don’t worry—she’s still the same woman, just... sharper. And maybe a bit more selective with her reading list.”

John let out a small laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean, she looks incredible. I just wasn’t expecting…”

He trailed off, his eyes not leaving the woman he thought he knew.

“You can swap places with your wife whenever you’re ready,” Barton said, moving to power down the machine.

“Hold on.”

Barton paused. John shifted his weight, his indecision playing out on his face.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’d like to change something else.”

John’s hesitation hung in the air, heavy with implications. He didn’t say anything else—not yet. But Barton had seen this exact moment before. A client not quite sure what they want, but deeply aware they’re being given a chance to tilt the scales in their favor. John’s eyes lingered on his wife, on the way she stood so confidently in her new attire, the sharpness in her gaze, the subtle but definite way she now seemed to occupy more space—not physically, but intellectually, like she *belonged* in front of an audience, not just beside him at dinner parties.

Barton had been trained—by years of dealing with fragile egos and vague fantasies—to act without always waiting for the explicit ask.

“Some clients prefer a more… balanced profile,” he said softly, mostly to himself, fingers drifting back to the keyboard.

“What do you mean by—”

“It’s just tuning,” Barton interrupted gently, already keying in a few discreet commands. “Think of it like optimizing. She’s still brilliant. Still accomplished. But she doesn’t always have to win every argument. Or quote Derrida during lunch.”

John gave a small, nervous chuckle but didn’t protest.

In the chamber, Linda stood calmly, occasionally glancing around the sterile space as the hum of the machine continued around her. She didn’t notice the changes as they rippled through her—subtle, at first. Her posture softened ever so slightly, shifting from academic steel to something a little more languid, relaxed. Her features brightened, symmetrical and striking; the faint creases around her eyes smoothed, her lips subtly fuller, the planes of her face enhanced to emphasize beauty as much as intellect.

Her clothes adjusted again, only slightly. The blouse stayed, but the top few buttons were now undone, framing the curve of her collarbone and hint of cleavage with tasteful suggestion. The skirt tightened a little at the hips, the boots just a bit taller, the entire ensemble now somewhere between university faculty and fashion-forward book influencer.

Her glasses remained—but the frames thinned into something sleeker, trendier, less “tenure track” and more “featured in a glossy spread.” Her eyes remained sharp, but the edge dulled ever so slightly. She still remembered the conferences, the interviews, the years of teaching—but now they blurred more easily with memories of social brunches, casual gallery openings, nights where she *meant* to finish editing that paper but opted instead for wine and rooftop conversation.

Her mental acuity remained intact, but Barton had eased off the hyper-focus. Her thoughts drifted more now, a little less lightning-fast, a little more accessible. She still had an opinion on most things, but she no longer *needed* to share them at every opportunity.

From her perspective, nothing had changed. This had always been who she was: a whip-smart, stylish woman with a touch of glamor, a spark of charisma, and a gift for reading the room. She liked ideas, sure, but she liked being admired more. She believed in balance. And she liked when John looked at her the way he was looking now—eyes wide, caught between pride and raw, confused desire.

Barton leaned back in his chair, satisfied, as the machine entered standby.

“Optimized,” he said casually. “She’s still everything she was, just... a little easier to be around.”

John swallowed, his expression hard to read. He gave a small nod, unsure whether to feel relieved, guilty, or lucky.

“Your turn?” Barton asked, already entering prep mode for the next session.

John blinked, then looked again at Linda—now checking her reflection in the reflective glass panel on the chamber wall, adjusting her scarf and running a finger down the edge of her cheekbone with an absentminded smile.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Let’s do it.”

Barton smiled, not because he liked meddling—but because, more often than not, people just needed the illusion of choice.

And he was more than happy to provide it.