Upon arriving at the penitentiary, all prisoners are molecularised and compressed down to size. There is great variation between wings, with the extent of dollification increasing with the severity of the crime. The low-security section houses white-collar criminals who enjoy an enviable existence as near life-sized silicone things, while the population of the maximum security wing could be contained in a single bucket of green Army Men.

But within a wing, they are turned into the same mass-produced doll. By rendering them the same size and each as weak as each other, there is less potential for power imbalances in the inmate population. They'll still tear each other limb from limb over matters of status or the internal social systems of the prison, of course, but at least it stops them from coveting each other's body parts based on size. Skin tone and the color of their nylon hair are randomly selected from a small selection of shades, and we can identify them by the barcodes branded on them, but beyond that they are identical. By denying them their identities, they are instilled with a sense of conformity. Conformity leads to compliance. Compliance to rehabilitation.

It seems to be in the nature of prisoners to resist their therapy. They're always modifying themselves to reassert a sense of personal individuality and often to display their membership to the different gangs. They'll use whatever they can get their little hands on; painting, etching or even burning symbols into themselves, and it is constant work to maintain them in mint condition.

The penitentiary hosts several Yakuza. Somehow they'd gotten their hands on a sharpie and had 'tattoed' themselves back to their former glory overnight. An exasperated prison guard dumps them in my workshop the morning after.

"Look at the mess you've made of yourselves." I tut, examining the dolls huddled in the corner of their cardboard box. "Is that permanent marker? Tsk tsk. You do like to create extra work for me, don't you?"

They scurry to dodge my grasping hand. I snag one and place him down on the workbench, running the scanner over the barcode on his ass. Tatsuya "The Dragon" Saito. Crime: Murder. He squirms as I reach for the jar of paint thinner and the cotton buds. "Iya, kusuguri bō janakute kudasai!" he whimpers. "Soreigai wa nani demo! No tickle! Please! Mercy!"

He resists me removing the doll-sized orange jumpsuit. With a whole box of Yakuza to fix, I impatiently pop his limbs off and slip the clothing off his abbreviated torso. I swab his hard body down with paint thinner. His tiny howls of anguished laughter fill the workshop as the cotton bud tickles against the underside of his sensitive plastic breasts. The bud wipes away the scraps of his individuality until he is glossy. He is reassembled. I move on to the next until he and his compatriots are returned to a flawless matching set.