Chapter Text
From: Reda Shepard
To: David Anderson
Date: 2169-08-27, draft, deleted
Sir,
Or is it dear Sir? Hello Sir? Mr. Anderson? How does one start such correspondence correctly? Sorry if I get any conventions wrong or go over some military regulations or something, I just really don’t know how one starts such letters. Never written such stuff before. Though, Cynthia assumed you might want to know how things are going so I thought - well, I don’t really know what I thought. To be honest, she asked me for the third time now whether I have written you and I don’t dare to tell her a fourth time that I didn’t.
So, how are things going? Pretty nerve-wracking, if you ask me. It takes hell of a paperwork to get one an identity. They wanted to know stuff I had never thought about and because why. Really, of what relevance is my place of birth? No one ever talked to me about it and it doesn’t matter for anything at all so I have no clue about it. Not sure if I really wanna know. Not sure about my birthdate as well. I just realized that the fact, that I always thought it was April 11, doesn’t matter at all if I have no record proving it. There is no file about me in the system yet, I mean, not one with that kind of data. There is file but… lets don’t talk about that. But you can’t get a flat without such a file, nor a job. Like - nothing, in the end.
They asked for my last name. I don’t remember having one. Cynthia discussed that with me before and asked me which one I would prefer. That’s like Christmas, right? Choose your identity, here’s your options, how would you like it to be? I chose Shepard. It somehow sounds good with Reda and I always pitied those people with names that just won’t relate.
Reda Shepard.
It still sounds strange. It will sound right, is all they say. Cynthia, I mean.
Having no official identity is like having a secret. No one must know.
Not that any of those things ever mattered. A last name, or a date or place of birth. None of those mattered. Curious whether that will change now.
Atlanta is…
Guess I will never send this one. But at least I can now tell Cynthia that I have, somehow.
Take care.
- Reda
***
From: Reda Shepard
To: Maureen Banks
Date: 2169-08-28, draft
Maureen,
I’m not allowed to write you, or contact you, or have any other link to what once used to be my home. Once, which means: Not even a month ago. But maybe some day I can send you all of this. So I thought I’d write you nevertheless and keep it all drafted, because, who knows? Or maybe I’ll send them nonetheless. Because who cares.
How are you doing? How’s Bonny? Hope he hasn’t made you pay for what I’ve done. If he has, consider him dead, sooner or later. I’m fucking serious about it.
I’m doing fine, I think. I have a place of birth note, you know? Bullshit. And a last name which I am not supposed to tell you. It’s the one you always used in your stories. I really miss them, your stories. Fuck it, I miss you all.
This letter writing thing is bullshit. It doesn’t make things any better.
***
From: Reda Shepard
To: David Anderson
Date: 2169-08-30
Sir,
Cynthia assumed I would write you how things are going. They’re going well, I think. Strange, but well. They’re going. Lots of paperwork. Good to have her help with that.
Thank you for those things. For the help. I try to not mess it up.
Last name’s now Shepard. Reda Shepard. It will take some time until I get used to it.
Take care in space.
- Shepard