DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. I do not own Alien/Aliens or the materials associated with the film/novels franchise. What I do own is this story in part or whole, the plot and set-up of the plot, and original characters that came with it.

The Captor, the Captive and the Captivated
Prologue

Year 2077, March 9
Bristol, United Kingdom

"Have no fear, little one. No harm will ever come to you again, I promise."

Even though his blue eyes were of the same shade, his was so kind and gentle—despite the show of strength he'd just displayed only seconds ago. His soft, blonde hair felt like the centre of marshmallows against my face. He even smelt like vanilla and flour, like warm fluffy pancakes—just the way Mrs Gresham liked them.

In that moment though, it was like she didn't even own him, that she didn't exist in his programming and that this wasn't a mere glitch. He proved this to me by holding me close within his tender and warm arms—so real to the touch, so life-like, so human. He'd ignored everything else but me. I was all that mattered. As I was close enough, he reached out for my head and stroke my hair; his grasp was careful but unsure like he was approaching a wounded animal. Then he suddenly hummed a familiar tune—'You Are My Sunshine'.

It was my favourite. How could he have known?

"Will I… Will I really be alright?" my voice came out as raspy and weak. I was meek and scared, to say the least.

I couldn't help but tremble within his embrace. Yet as if to reassure me, he held onto me tighter and I knew I was safe in his arms. I could fall apart and he would keep me together.

"I promise you are alright now," he whispered. His voice – strangely enough – sounded as shaky as mine. Was I imagining it? His reaction, minute as it were, was like he wasn't fully aware of what had just happened or how to possibly compute it. He lost confidence only for brief moment of confusion before he hugged me closer—that was more for himself than me. "You will be fine! I won't let anyone hurt you now."

I was speechless, in disbelief.

"I should've gone to you sooner! And now…"

I didn't know what to say to that.

How could I have wanted that knowing that he belonged to someone else and that he has to put Mrs Gresham as a priority above all others? I had hoped that someone would find out about me and that rescue will come soon after, but never in another lifetime did I imagine it to have been at the hands of a Synthetic.

"I'm sorry if I've failed you, Aine."

That was impossible.

How could he be crying too?

I choked on my sobs.

But quietly I thought about something I'd heard from my nana* before…

"If one was able to think, then one would be able to intend on performing one's desires; where there is an intention on anything, there must be a perspective and perception behind that information or desire to want to do something. And, indeed, if gathering information from something so banal and grotesquely changeable as emotions is anything remotely similar to being human, then my dear child, Synthetics can feel. Then that means they are quite… human."

I didn't understand it when she said it back then, but at that moment, that was all I could really think about. The thought went through my mind over and over again, repeating intermittently with my sobbing and sniffling like a dance. Like the steps to a dance.

Till I finally reached out and returned his embrace as if it was the most natural thing to do.

It was somehow comforting to know that I had invoked something out of nothing, but maybe this was too overwhelming for a child to understand. But that was the harsh, inevitable reality of the moment that I must accept and it was wonderful. Confusing – almost irritating – but wonderful.

I felt so welcomed.

Distant wailing of sirens soon joined his humming and before long, I was lulled into a calming sleep.

My eyes were closed, but my senses were conscious. I felt him scooping me up in his caged arms, carrying me away from that forsaken place and out into the open. The cold, Welsh valley breeze greeted us like a wave rolling down from a feverish thrill, but I was warm enough. It was the start of winter at nightfall and the cul-de-sac was quiet; I could hear distant murmurs from inside each of the houses and flats nearby, but no one came out to see what happened or how they could mitigate the trouble. No one wanted to find out if their suspicions all this time were true or that indeed their guilty inaction had now caused my misfortune.

The Synthetic stopped moving; he sat down on the staircase at the entrance of the apartment building where we lived together as neighbours—I knew where he was because of the smell of daises filling up the air. I knew this porch like the back of my hand. This was the one spot where I was free from my abuser. Perhaps it was because this is where I'd always seen the Synthetic looking back at me, as if he knew what was going on but was powerless to do anything about it.

Until now.

I instinctively clung harder onto his clothes. I didn't want to ever leave his side.

"Shh. It's alright, just rest… Think of nothing," his warm breath fanned my face as he placed an innocent kiss on my head and then the humming resumed.

Before I knew it, I drifted off into a half-awake state once more.

The sounds of sirens became much closer and louder in time; the blaring noise began to hurt my ears, but the Synthetic pushed me to his chest and covered my other ear. It didn't help quell the sound, but I didn't tell him.

People who arrived in those noisy cars begin to yell at him, but he assured them that he wasn't the one who had hurt m. Perhaps it was the way that I held onto him that made them believe him instantly. He told them about the real perpetrator who was lying inside my home, 'Flat 3A', and that he had knocked him out cold. They scurried into the building, but not after the Synthetic urged them to wait until I've left and spoke about trying to contain the 'victim's trauma'—I assumed it was for me.

More sirens resounded and more people – different from the one before – began to surround us. The Synthetic tried to hand me over to them, but I just wouldn't let go.

"It's okay, Aine. I promise they won't hurt you," he spoke gently all the time—it was hard for me to think he was more than capable to throw solid ceramic table tops with ease.

But I still didn't let go. I didn't want to.

The people tried to persuade me with candy, but I was adamant. So they just started checking up on me whilst I was being carried by the Synthetic.

I had even forgotten about the wound in my stomach—I'm too tired, too worn out and overloaded with so many other things to think much of it. I know it was still there thanks to these tiny, throbbing sensations and the slow oozing of blood. I began to feel paralysed and dizzy. But when they couldn't convince me to move at all, the Synthetic took a medicated patch from them and quickly placed it over the wound. I didn't even feel nor see him move. He then urged them to give me 'shots' and they rolled up my torn pyjamas sleeves to give me one up my arm—apparently, it was something milder than 'morphine'.

He told me it would help and it did; the pain faded away with the throbbing.

"Where's my Mummy? I want my Mummy," I whispered to the Synthetic.

He nods against my head. "Don't worry—she's on her way."

I stayed like that for a while further until I suddenly heard my mother's voice.

The car she was in hadn't even braked, but she leapt out to get me. I hadn't seen her in a long time and seeing her again seemed like a faraway dream, an evil mirage playing at my vulnerable mind. My hesitance to greet her was obvious to the Synthetic, but tirelessly he reassured me that I was awake and that that was really my mother.

I didn't remember her looking so dreary and tired. Her flowing, curly dark hair was a mess and her brown eyes were reddened—not only with tears for what had happened, but I suppose also after all the exhaustive effort that she'd spent during the time she'd been gone. She was always busy with work—it was all I had ever seen her do.

The Synthetic brushed my hair one last time and released me into her embrace.

Her arms were warm too. I wanted to hold her, but then I remembered—I haven't thanked him.

I looked back at him and he reached out for me one last time with a sad smile, patting my head.

He mouthed something, but I couldn't hear it with the crowd and my mother frantically screaming in my ears.

I wanted to know what he said. I asked him to repeat it.

But all he did was smile.

As soon as we were in my mother's car, the people around the Synthetic took him down and dragged him away. They were wearing strange looking suits with a large logo printed on the back. I could only make it out as 'Weyland Industries'.

"Mummy! He's not a bad person! He saved me! What are they doing? Why are they taking him away?!" I cried in my mother's face, but hers mirrored the same look of confusion. Her eyes carried unfathomable disarray and panic.

She hushed me, eyes widening. "It's alright, Aine! They're taking him away to fix him!"

Fix him?

"He's hurt too—just like you! They have to see what's wrong with him, so that nothing like this would ever happen again!"

"But why? He's not the one who hurt me! And isn't this a good thing? He still saved me even though—"

"Aine, darling, please believe me. This is a good thing, but the people who made him need to see if there's anything wrong with him at all… just like all those people have to check you earlier."

"Will I ever see him again?"

My mother fell quiet.

I didn't know what that meant, but I was afraid to find out. I regretted ever asking her.

"Of course, my darling! You'll see him again—I'm sure of it! Now let's lie down and get you to the hospital!"

But I never did see him again.

I—No, 'we' never did get to thank him for what he did.

Who knew where I'd be or what would've happened if—

Author's Notes: Hi there, this is my first Aliens fanfiction. I watched "Alien: Covenant" for the first time last week and I have been catching up with the next screening over and over on my cable TV. lol I really enjoyed Fassbender's acting and Waterson's character (well, the Xenomorphs too, of course! lol) but I just can't get my fangirling over so I do what I know best when I need to get rid of my fangirling fit: writing fanfiction! Hope you enjoy it!

I'm aware that in some of the Covenant's deleted scenes (which I will refer to for this story, as well as some parts in the film's novelisation) that Walter called David 8 a prototype, "the first of his kind; I am merely a copy". But I'm guessing that's a bit odd, considering David 8 is labelled... well, 8th (possibly of all the prototypes). I somehow figured that it was still possible to purchase your own Synthetic anyway, since the Prometheus film promotion included an advert for Synthetics. So the Synthetic above is actually one of the more commercial units... Let's just say there is a reason for this scene later on. ;)

Btw, the name "Aine" is pronounced "ay-nah"; it 's Irish, meaning 'radiance' and 'splendour'. (I was wrong before lol)

*nana - pretty sure this is British slang for 'grandmother'.

7 June - Final edits included. It is DEFINITELY much smoother now. Changed the title once again! lol