The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy (Whole Story) 3/27

[barelin]

The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy

Chapter 3C: No More Danielle, Only D14

The room fell into silence so profound it felt like the calm before the storm—thick. Suffocating, as if the air was bracing for what was to come. My chest constricted, the weight of that silence pressing down on me, making each breath a struggle. My gaze was fixed on Mrs. Thompson as she moved with calculated precision around the front of her desk. She placed five unmarked canisters of varying sizes on the edge, their dull metallic surfaces catching the fluorescent light in a way that made them seem almost alive. Her fingers trailed along the back of the canisters, lingering as if recalling something. My stomach twisted as her attention shifted to two figures in the room—V7G41 and W7M22—each with similar canisters lodged unnaturally into their bodies. The sight was grotesque, their forms distorted, their humanity stripped away. My mind recoiled, struggling to process what I was seeing. This wasn’t just wrong; it was monstrous.

Without a word, Mrs. Thompson picked up a small device, no larger than an eraser, and pressed it against the lower back of U7T02, just above the curve of her spine. For a moment, nothing happened. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric as someone shifted nervously in their seat. Mrs. Thompson stepped back, her eyes scanning the room, a faint, unsettling grin playing on her lips.

Then—it happened.

A collective gasp ripped through the room, sharp and involuntary, as U7T02’s body began to change. Her form contorted unnaturally, her limbs stiffening as her torso arched backward, but it was her lower body that drew my horrified gaze. Her vaginal cavity widened to an unnatural size, stretching far beyond anything humanly possible. It was as if she were about to give birth, but there was nothing natural about it. The flesh seemed to ripple and distort, the opening expanding grotesquely, revealing a dark, mechanical void beneath. My stomach churned, and a cold sweat broke out across my skin. This couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t be possible, and yet, there it was, unfolding before us in horrifying clarity.

Mrs. Thompson grabbed the largest canister from her desk. Without hesitation, she forced it into the unnatural opening in U7T02’s body. The room’s silence was shattered as a mechanical voice echoed coldly: “Inserted. Locked in place for shipment.” The words hung in the air, final and chilling, as the reality of what we had just seen settled over us like a suffocating shroud.

Mrs. Thompson turned to face us, her gaze sweeping across the room like a predator sizing up its prey. Her eyes were sharp, and calculating, and when they momentarily locked onto mine, a cold shiver raced down my spine. I tried to look away, to break the unnerving connection, but my mind felt trapped in a fog—slow, heavy, and unresponsive. This wasn’t just surreal; it was wrong—deeply, fundamentally wrong. A terrifying thought clawed its way to the surface: Was this my future?

It was then that the realization hit me like a punch to the gut. My mom’s cryptic comments from last night—and over the past few days—flooded back into my mind. I hadn’t put much thought into them at the time, dismissing them as her usual ramblings. Now, they have taken on a horrifying new meaning. She had been muttering under her breath, her voice low and trembling, “Her grandbaby will be on four legs.” At the time, I’d brushed it off as nonsense, something to ignore. But now, standing in this room, surrounded by this nightmare, the words echoed in my head like a death knell. What had she meant? What had she known? Why hadn’t I listened?

Mrs. Thompson’s voice sliced through the silence, calm and measured, as if she were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “I want each of you to look around at the eleven females in this room,” she began, her tone chillingly matter-of-fact. “Especially the men and for the women among you, know this: two of you will soon begin your full mailgirl conversion process. This will involve the removal of unnecessary organs—such as your reproductive systems—to make room for the advanced shipment equipment you’ve just witnessed.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing like a drum in my ears. I glanced around the room, my eyes darting from face to face. The other girls looked as horrified as I felt, their expressions a mix of shock, fear, and disbelief. The guys seemed equally shaken, their usual bravado replaced by wide-eyed silence. No one spoke. No one moved. The weight of her words pressed down on us, crushing any hope that this was some kind of twisted joke.

Mrs. Thompson continued, her voice unwavering. “This is not a choice. It is a necessity. Each of you has been selected for a purpose, and that purpose requires sacrifice. The process will be… transformative. Painful, yes, but necessary for the greater good. You will become more than human. You will become efficient, precise, and indispensable.”

A wave of nausea washed over me, and I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to calm myself. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t, but the evidence was right in front of me—U7T02’s unnatural transformation, the cold, mechanical voice declaring her readiness for “shipment,” the canisters lined up on the desk like tools in some grotesque workshop. This was real, and it was happening to us.

“Gradually, over the past few days, they have been preparing themselves—mentally and physically—all while getting snippets of their future,” Mrs. Thompson added, her gaze lingering on me. My breath hitched. I knew right then she was talking about me. The strange conversations with my mom over the past few days, the cryptic comments, the way she’d looked at me with a mix of sadness and resignation—it all clicked into place. This wasn’t just some abstract horror; it was my reality.

“This is not something you can run from,” Mrs. Thompson continued, her tone firm, final. “Resistance is futile.” Her words settled over the room like a death sentence. I glanced around, my eyes landing on the shy girl sitting behind me. She looked just as nervous as I felt, her hands trembling in her lap, her face pale. Scattered around the room were discarded items of clothing—a blouse at my feet, a bra draped over a chair, and a pair of string bikini panties near the desk of another girl. My stomach dropped as I realized she was the other one. The second girl was chosen for this nightmare.

Mrs. Thompson’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “I need one volunteer,” she said, her tone almost casual, as if she were asking for someone to pass out papers. The room was silent, the air thick with tension. No one moved. No one breathed. Then, slowly, a hand went up. It was Alana Haley, a girl from the back of the room. Alana was tall and athletic, with short, dark hair and a quiet confidence that made her stand out. She wasn’t someone who usually volunteered for things, but here she was, rising from her seat with a determined look on her face. Her hands were steady, her jaw set, but I could see the faint tremor in her steps as she walked to the front of the room.

“Press the release button on T02’s back control, use your other hand to pull out the canister, insert the items you’ve gathered from the floor, and return the canister inside T02 until you feel the click. You’ll know it’s done when you hear the same response we heard earlier.”

As Alana knelt beside T02, another student—a boy who sat near my chair—reached down and picked up what was left of my blouse. He handed it to the next student at the front of the room, who added it to the growing pile of discarded clothing. Other students did the same with the remaining items—the bra, the panties—all of which I knew belonged to the other girl, the one whose fate now seemed sealed. The room felt like a grotesque assembly line, each of us complicit in this nightmare.

Alana pressed the small release button on T02’s lower back, and a faint hiss echoed through the room as the canister loosened. With her other hand, she gripped the canister and pulled it free, her face twisting slightly at the unnatural sight. She hesitated for only a moment before gathering the discarded clothing and stuffing it into the canister with quick, efficient motions. Her hands moved with a precision that suggested she was forcing herself to focus, to block out the horror of what she was doing.

Once the items were inside, Alana slid the canister back into place, her brow furrowed in concentration. She pushed until we all heard the soft click, followed by the same mechanical voice from before: “Inserted. Locked in place for shipment.”

Alana stood, her face pale but composed, and stepped back. She didn’t look at any of us, her eyes fixed on the floor as she returned to her seat. The room remained silent, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on us all. Mrs. Thompson’s grin widened, and I felt a cold dread settle in my chest.

As I sat there, frozen in place, a chilling awareness washed over me. This wasn’t just the beginning of something terrible—it was the end of everything I had known, my family, my friends, and everything else. The life I had lived, the person I had been, was being stripped away before my eyes, piece by piece. The room, the canisters on the desk, and within those mailgirls, the grotesque transformation—witnessing it all felt like a funeral. My funeral. I was at the edge of an abyss, watching my old self being buried, while the unknown loomed ahead, vast and unthinkable.

The worst part of it all was that there was no escape. No way to claw back what was being taken from me. I was trapped, fully aware, forced to witness the death of my life as it unraveled.

Mrs. Thompson’s voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and commanding. “Chloe Sanchez,” she said, her tone devoid of any warmth. “Step forward.”

Chloe, a petite girl with dark curls and a perpetually nervous demeanor, froze in her seat. Her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her desk, her knuckles white. The room seemed to hold its breath as she slowly rose, her movements stiff and robotic, as if her body were no longer her own. She walked to the front of the room, her steps echoing in the oppressive silence. The class watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as she began to undress.

“Remove everything,” Mrs. Thompson instructed, her voice cold and unyielding. “Your clothes, your shoes, your socks. Leave nothing behind. You are now nothing more than a mailgirl pending conversion.”

Chloe’s hands shook as she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Next came her skirt, then her shoes and socks, until she stood in nothing but her underwear. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast, but there was a strange calmness to her demeanor as if she had already accepted her fate. She folded her clothes neatly and placed them in the bag M22 held out to her, her movements deliberate, almost ritualistic.

Mrs. Thompson turned to me next. “Danielle Carter,” she said, her voice softening into something almost maternal, though the coldness in her eyes betrayed her. “Remove your shoes, socks, and pants. Place them in the bag M22 is holding, and return to your desk in just your panties and camisole. You will be fully dressed for your next period.”

My heart pounded in my chest, my throat dry as I struggled to process her words. I bent over at the side of my desk, fumbling with my shoe. My hands shook so badly that I nearly fell over, the room spinning around me. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, their stares burning into my skin like brands.

I pulled off my socks, stuffing them into my shoes, and then hesitated, my fingers trembling at the waistband of my pants. The air felt thick, charged with a tension that made it hard to breathe. I glanced around the room, my heart racing, and saw the shock on my classmates’ faces—their wide eyes, their parted lips frozen in disbelief. A boy in the back row muttered something under his breath, his voice trembling. Another student, a girl with her hands clenched tightly on her desk, looked like she was crying.

I pushed my pants down, my face burning with shame, and stepped out of them. The walk to the front of the room felt like an eternity, my bare feet cold against the linoleum floor. I dropped my shoes and pants into the bag M22 was holding, avoiding Chloe’s gaze as she stood beside me, now down to her panties.

To my surprise, Chloe didn’t look scared. She looked… calm. Resigned. As I turned to return to my desk, she smiled at me—a small, almost reassuring smile—before pulling off the last remaining piece of her old self and dropping it into the bag.

Mrs. Thompson clapped her hands, the sound sharp and jarring. “From this point forward, Chloe will be known as X7C12 or C12. Dani Carter will be known only by x7D14 or D14 and nothing else, she will be stripped publicly before the entire cafeteria as a demonstration of the conversion process. It’s an honor, really—to serve a greater purpose, to become something more than what you see now.”

Her words sent a cold wave of dread through me. I glanced around the room, my heart pounding in my chest. The air felt thick, charged with a tension that made it hard to breathe. I felt a wave of nausea as the realization hit: this wasn’t just a display—it was a warning, and I was terrified of what it meant.

As I returned to my desk, my bare legs touching the cold plastic seat, sending a chill up my spine, I couldn’t shake the image of Chloe’s smile. It wasn’t fear I saw in her eyes—it was acceptance. At that moment, I realized something even more terrifying: she wasn’t afraid because she had already let go, and soon, I would too.

[barelin]

[Editor’s notes: Readers, I want to thank all of you for all of your comments and inputs you have made through my publication of this story. Plus, I want to give great thanks to my contributing author and editor, Megansdad, who has been nothing short of a lifesaver in keeping this and other work from falling apart. Thanks again, Megansdad, for working and sticking with me on this.]

The Mailgirls of Stephens Academy

Chapter 4: Her Name Was Dani” Carla’s POV

The image of her walking through the hall in just her panties and camisole stuck with me when she entered Mrs. Ramirez's social Studies class as if she was still wearing clothes when she nearly pushed me and Rachel to yank off her bra before those mailgirls, those mailgirls seated, on that stage and everyone around us. Out of the group texts, while in Mrs. Ramirez and at the beginning of lunch. Rachel and I hadn’t even spoken with each other—there were no words for it until after school. Just… silence and that feeling I felt when my grandmother passed away last year. The kind you fill with glances, with half-started sentences, empty platitudes, and with a nausea that doesn’t go away.

She walked past us like it was normal. Like she didn’t feel the cold floor under her bare feet. Like she wasn’t exposed. Like she hadn’t just been stripped of most of her clothes.

We both sat through Mrs. Ramirez, and despite our best friend before any of us stepped foot on the grounds of Stephens Academy. She and Dani were still the bubbly people that we all had known, despite everything we all found out much later in the afternoon, talking with Wanda Mack in over-the-top detail a few days later.

In a way I am grateful that the powers that be allowed Rachel and me to have our best friend one last time before lunch. Despite that her body was just those two thin layers of fabric, Rachel and I chose to only see her fully dressed.

Now to the cafeteria demonstration, numb. That wasn’t Dani on the table. That was D14. A thing. An exhibit. A warning. Her body moved when they told it to. Bent when instructed. Obeyed the commands like a drone. Her eyes were open, but nothing behind them moved. Dani had accepted her fate, not allowing herself to show any emotion in front of her friends and classmates, especially not how she felt—sad and scared, but mostly betrayed by her parents for allowing this to happen to her if they could stop from what I learned later on.

That last night at Dani’s, correcting what was her house in her old room… It felt like a wake. Her mom tried to keep it light, offering tea and acting like everything was fine. Mr. and Mrs. Carter were doing their best to keep everything positive but looking into both of their eyes, especially Mrs. Carter’s, felt like, in a way, it was a funeral.

The kind of smile that stretches too wide because it’s trying to keep something darker from leaking out. We barely said a word. Just sat in her bedroom with Dani, following spending it in the other parts of the house with several of her family, and Rachel and I had no clue who they were. Rachel whispered something that I already knew: our old dear friend Dani Carter, in a way, was gone. That over-the-top demonstration we all witnessed with her surrounded by several mailgirls on that table and several academy officials, many I had never seen before, were talking as we watched her pull off her camisole and panties as if her normal clothes had stopped existing the moment that director from the senior campus gave the command.

She didn’t cry. I did a better job holding back my tears than Rachel leading to her now D14 being helped off the table to the door to the rest of the school. We didn’t know if she still could. Is this Dani, our friend? Did they do something to her already that took away her emotions? With Dani emotionally shut down and not speaking, Rachel and I hugged Dani and said our goodbyes one last time before leaving. I don’t know about Rachel, but I decided to treat the whole situation as if one of my best friends had just died.

In the morning was worse when I met Dani at her door, sorry for what my mom told me last night once I got back home. I need to begin seeing what was left of one of my best friends in the past tense, the house she used to live in. I was doing my best to keep her warm seeing she was shivering hard—the cocktail of drugs given to the mailgirls to help them adapt to the cold temperatures hadn’t been administered yet, and her skin had already begun to turn blue as I was told by Mrs. Carter before walking with her down the driveway.

It wasn’t until I was at the edge of the driveway that I saw Rachel approaching, which caused me to suddenly stop and, in the process, nearly push our friend Dani, who was more or less now completely checked out, and it was overly sad. Before us, Rachel in all terms was covered, just it wasn’t… From what I saw, all that she had on was a light sundress and open-toed sandals.

The only thing Rachel said, before grabbing the other arm of our old friend. The snow and ice touching her feet feel like stabbing pinpricks. Dani’s feet were already pale with blotches of purple and red. Her lips were already turning blue. I knew, from the time I was too lazy to dress for the cold and went out to check the mail and grab the newspaper in my silk pajamas and barefoot, exactly what Dani was feeling. Only I got to go back inside—she didn’t and I have no clue what Rachel was thinking. A thought crept in about her grandparents in California, who, against all odds, had never seen clothes but dismissed it to put all of my attention on what was left of Dani.

Dani’s body offers no protection from the cold air that cuts through everything. Her body was shaking so hard it looked like she might collapse, but she kept walking and telling us she was not wearing any less than Rachel or me. One foot in front of the other. No complaints. No sound. It was as if her mind had already been altered and she no longer reacted to the world around her.

Finally, at the bus stop, I couldn’t figure out Rachel's lack of attire. We both did our best to deflect what everyone around us at the bus stop was saying, our Dani remained silent as we wouldn’t allow her to remain in one spot until the bus arrived. The driver didn’t say anything, just opened the door a little faster than usual. The other kids moved aside, letting Dani board first. Inside, the heat hit us like a wall. She didn’t react, just stood there for a second, frozen in more ways than one, before Carla and I guided her to an empty seat. Her skin was ice cold.

I turned her sideways in the seat with Rachel in the seat on the other side of the aisle. We rubbed her feet, her legs, and her arms—anywhere we could reach, careful not to go too fast. Fortunately, we still had fifteen minutes before we reached the school. I knew that if the blood returned too quickly, it would do more harm than good. Her toes were stiff, like little stones. Her fingers barely moved. I don’t even know if she registered what we were doing. She didn’t flinch or even look at us. I felt a cold tear fall on my face at the loss of my friend. I suspected her mind had disconnected to deal with a situation Dani never wanted and feared.

It felt like trying to warm up a ghost—maybe that’s what she was—a ghost of her former self.

The bus hissed to a stop outside the main building, its heat already starting to fade as the doors folded open. The students stood but waited, watching Dani from where they stood. She stood on shaky legs. Her skin had recovered some in the warmth of the bus, but still needed more time to fully recover.

As we stepped off the bus, Principal Barrera was already waiting for us. She was flanked by two office aides, coat zipped high, clipboard in hand like this was any other Wednesday morning. She handed me and Rachel a folded slip of paper without a word. She then looked over her shoulders speaking to two mailgirls. I didn’t recall their numbers, just that one began with a T7 something and the other a V7 something to “Escort W7D14 to Processing Unit 4.”

Then as we both watched them escort D14 through what was filled with students watching. Over the speakers, it was announced—“All eighth-grade Junior Stephen Academy students are excused from classes until noon, all students are asked to report to the junior campus gym for a mailgirl information and question assembly.” That was it. No ‘Good morning’. Just cold ink on cheap paper. “Take her now,” Barrera said. “They are waiting.” We didn’t speak. There was nothing to say, but there was plenty to think about the way my best friend was being dismissed as nothing more than an insignificant thing.

After reading the note, we both walked across the quad, past the gym, through an iron gate that separated the senior side of the campus, a place we weren’t supposed to be. During the walk, I could see the discomfort in my friend Rachel on the little she was wearing, but my attention, as well as hers, was on what is now nothing more than a shell—D14.

The warehouse was industrial and clinical. It was a building that didn’t belong on school grounds—more like a forgotten wing of a military facility. Inside, it smelled like ozone and a chemistry lab.

A group of techs in black uniforms surrounded her the moment she stepped in. Rachel grabbed my hand, squeezed it hard, and we watched as they led D14, or what was Dani, to a metal table and strapped her to it. The table reminded me of an autopsy table in a morgue that I had seen in a movie once. They moved quickly. Efficiently. They didn't treat her like a person. They fitted her with an oxygen mask, inserted an intravenous (IV) catheter in her right arm, and pushed in a ureteral catheter, along with several other sensors on her body. Then someone in what was nothing but scrubs and a lab coat, injected her with a blue serum and tilted her body backward until the frame clicked into a horizontal position before seeing she was still breathing with her eyes closed.

A thick, white casing slid down from above, enclosing her in what looked like a stasis pod stenciled in large boldness X7D14. Now unsure what to think, someone startled both of us by telling us, “Mrs. Carter asked the academy if we would allow you both the chance to say goodbye to your best friend, Dani Carter. Over the coming days, X7D14 will begin her full conversion following the incisions in the preparation you both witnessed. We will be removing X7D14’s ovaries and uterus to make room for the state-of-the-art canister mechanism that would be incorporated within her body, making her more or less a hybrid,” before he walked away, leaving us standing there looking at that sealed thing that holds what was left of our best friend.

We turned to leave, but not before we saw the others. The other three new mailgirls stood by the exit, waiting to be assigned. We recognized them by their codes, but I couldn’t help remembering the names they used to have, just read those same stencils that were on the three canisters that read: X7C12, X7S14, and X7M07. Outside, we saw others, and everyone looked the same: emotionless expressions, silence, minds wiped of their past.

*******************************************************************************

Epilogue

After winter break, we came back to a school that looked the same but felt completely different.

They let us sit next to her in our homeroom class. She wore tight, black overalls, glossy and seamless, covering everything but her face. We were told it would be cut off during her public deployment on the main stage. We weren’t allowed to touch her. Not even brush against her. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t acknowledge us. Didn’t even turn her head when Rachel whispered her old name while saying something in my ear she had not fully explained before she left to see her grandparents in California last month. “Dani, do you see that I am just as naked as you will be,” to only get back a blank look.

At least we could sit next to her, even if I knew at that moment she was completely gone. That was something. It should’ve been unbearable—but it wasn’t. It was… peaceful, in the strangest, most gut-wrenching way. She was still beautiful—still Dani to the day I die, but she wasn’t our Dani… not anymore.

We were in the auditorium, Dani sitting stiffly between us; the stage lights were brutal.

Everyone in the academy was there. Rows and rows of students packed into the auditorium, with the remaining spaces around the room full of people standing. No noise. No phones. Just the weight of what was about to happen pressing on every shoulder in the room.

Principal Barrera took the mic. “We now complete the conversion of four of our own, and welcome her as property of the Academy’s Parcel Service and pride.”

All too soon, the girls were called to the stage. Dani was the last to be called and she stood and walked to the stage. Had her mind already been wiped and reprogrammed?

We watched them cut away the bodysuit with surgical scissors. It peeled back like wrapping paper, revealing gleaming black plating where there should’ve been skin. Her body had been altered—streamlined, smoothed, marked with small ports and mechanical seams.

She stood upright, shoulders back, perfect posture. They called her name.

“Danielle Carter.” A pause and then: “From this moment on, you will be known only as X7D14, or just D14.”

No applause. Just silence because that’s what death sounds like in a place that doesn’t allow mourning, and yet, through the numbness, Rachel smiled—just a little. I think I did too, because even though D14 didn’t know us anymore—even though she didn’t smile back—we got to sit with her one more time and remember the friend she used to be, and sometimes, that has to be enough.

The End

[reader_xyz]

Thank you for writing this story. Please continue to write.

[ugtharo]

Unusual story to read.
Showing gradual acceptance from her perspective.
Than an interesting, even if unnerving turn.

Interesting - was storyline planned from beginning or did ai give inspiration for story turn midway? (It sometimes does. Just normal mistral llm(without system prompt), when asked to write story about bsdm walk in school once made characters go into dissection room for me )

[Somebody]

I know nobody expects the Spanish inquisition, but I was really not expecting the Combine.