I love being art. 

I like being on display, deeply entranced in full view of the museum patrons. There’s something indefinably intense about having no choice and having to spend 10 hours a day however the curators want me. Still, I regret my choices that resulted in me losing mine. I knew shoplifting from that store was wrong, but I thought I could get away with it.

But I guess a year of community service as art was a better sentence than I had any right to. In high school I read how they used to address even petty crimes before the invention of the hypnotron – fines and prison, often for people who couldn’t afford it, and then when they had served their time they frequently couldn’t get jobs. It was inevitable most people who got into the system would end up stuck in it for years, if not their whole lives. 

Two days with the hypnotron was enough to make me compliant enough for the shifts, with just wireless earbuds repeating reinforcements and mantras in my ears all day. My vitals were monitored by my existing implant, so the museum’s central intelligence could insert suggestions so I could use the bathroom, drink water and eat when needed. 

Time at the museum was like a sleep. It passed quickly and I rarely remembered it, although a few patron interactions stood out. Unless the priceless historical art, patrons could touch us and move us around. I remember fairly early on I was dressed as – what was I dressed as? I guess it doesn’t matter – and a patron came up to me and started playing with my hair. Then she stood close to me and whispered in my ear “What a beautiful doll!”

For some reason, this made me weak in the knees – and still does. Another time, my feet were rearranged like a ballet dancer’s and just a few weeks ago I was a greeter at a new gallery and even got to speak. A few people came back for me to speak to them multiple times. That made me feel good. 

But there was one thing that happened that wasn’t usual. A patron saw me and said “Tony! There you are! What have they done to you? No matter – thank God I’ve found you at last – something’s not right here: you should have been released more than two years ago!” and things like that. Very unpleasant. Security finally came to talk to them and they went away. A few days later there was a new exhibit in the staff break room. 

But what nonsense. It’s only been a few months since my sentence started. 

If time passes quickly at the museum, it’s a blur outside it. I used to go . . . home? Yes, that’s the word, but now one of the curators usually takes me with them for the night – they’re so nice! Sometimes there are special events at the museum like fundraising galas or events for members. On nights like that, I might never leave the museum! I don’t seem to remember my time outside the museum, though. I guess it’s not important. 

One day, towards closing time, alarms began blaring throughout the museum. Many patrons began moving to the exits, but three came toward me. 

“Come on, Tony, we’ve come to get you out of here!” one said. 

I didn’t move. I wasn’t programmed to talk to patrons that day. 

They took my hand and tried pulling me off my plinth, but I resisted so that I wouldn’t topple over.  

“Forget it, Jake,” another patron said. “Tony’s too brainwashed to even understand what’s going on. I mean, look at him!”

The third patron agreed and lifted me bodily off the plinth and then they were running for an exit as fast as their legs could carry them. I was dumped in the back of an old sedan and a blanket was thrown over me. I could see nothing, but I could hear the conversation in the front of the car. 

“I hope Sam and Jill made it. If it means giving up two people to save one, is it worth it?” the one called Jake said. 

“We need to know what happened to Tony. He might be the key to figuring out what’s been happening to people,” said the second one. 

An unfamiliar voice, which must have belonged to the third patron, chimed in: “Poor, poor Tony. The changes were extreme – he must weigh about 90 pounds now. And the physical changes? It wouldn’t surprise me if they used nanobots to change him on a cellular level.”

“Can we get him back, Marco? You’re our expert on this stuff,” Jake asked. 

“I hope so. We won’t know until we remove the ear buds,” Marco said. “Even then – the hypnotrons were not supposed to be used this way.”

“Best start then,” Jake said. 

The blanket uncovered my face and one of the patrons removed my earbuds. I felt naked without their reassuring words of compliance and docility. The blanket was put back.

“Sleep now, Tony,” Marco said. “You’re going to need it.”

Marco wasn’t a curator, but I craved obedience. I slept. 

The next few days were a chaotic, disorganized mess. We hid from the authorities in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town we used as a safe house. I spent much of the time sleeping, but as my memories came back, I started waking up screaming, so they made me wear a gag so I wouldn’t give away our location or attract any passers-by. 

My sense of identity came back first. My name was Tony and when I started at the museum I was 26 – and cisgendered. But within months of arriving at the museum, the curators had begun changing me, using my suggestible state, their control over my autonomic functions and diet and finally nanotechnology to change me hormonally and cellularly. I now had the body of a 25 year-old woman. I was beyond confused.

With the help of my rescuers, I was able to start piecing together my memories. I was not a shoplifter, but a political dissident – a rebel against our corrupt system that regularly brainwashed citizens to maintain the status quo. But I had been captured and turned over to the curators. Officially they were there to reeducate and rehabilitate criminals. Unofficially, they were there to brainwash – and abuse – dissidents and those resistant to more subtle forms of persuasion.

With that understanding came more memories. Mostly of sex. All those blurred memories were me on my knees, sucking a curator’s cock or licking their pussy. I took it up the ass and in my vagina after it formed. I was so violated.

When I wasn’t sitting shellshocked after everything I had been through I tried to help Jake and the others. I remembered a room like a medical ward, where people lay in beds with electrodes from hypnotrons on their heads. There were dozens of them. 

“That’s all I remember, I swear,” I said. 

My voice was now higher pitched and feminine. It felt strange when I spoke. 

“Did you see anyone you recognized?” Jaked asked for what felt like the billionth time.

“No, I don’t think –” I fell silent, clutching my head. “Wha? – Can’t . . . think . . .”

“Tony!” Jake said. “Are you okay?”

I stood up straight, no longer seeing anything, but three patrons in an unfamiliar part of the museum. There was a tingling behind my ear, as the auxiliary transmitter began stimulating my mind with the messages from the hypnotron once again. 

Hovercraft landed outside and soon armed guards swarmed through the room. It was all over for the patrons, who were stunned and carried out on liters.

Curators came for me. They played with my hair and called me a good doll for helping capture five wanted criminals. I enjoyed the praise but didn’t understand what it meant. Within a few hours I was back on my plinth, earbuds in place, being admired by patrons. Over the next few days, five more statues were added to my gallery. 

I did the crime and now I was doing the time, but on the whole, my sentence wasn’t so bad. It was better than some unenlightened prison, that’s for sure.