Prometheus What If
Copyright© 2026 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 1
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A thought I had: what if a more competent crew had gone? Better yet, what if it was just one person? Selected from millions of candidates, James is chosen for the mission of a lifetime: to cross the stars, follow humanity’s oldest clues, and come face-to-face with the beings who may have created mankind.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Science Fiction Aliens Robot Space
James was ready.
The testing had been brutal, to say the least. Nearly a year of psychological evaluations, physical examinations, aptitude testing, stress assessments, and endless interviews had reduced him to numbers on a screen. Every part of him had been measured, questioned, challenged, and then measured again.
They tested his memory, concentration, spatial awareness, reaction time, problem-solving ability, emotional stability, and tolerance for isolation. He completed logic puzzles until his eyes blurred, pattern-recognition tests until he started seeing shapes when he closed them, and mathematical assessments designed to push him well beyond comfortable limits. His IQ had been tested repeatedly under different conditions to make sure the results were consistent.
Even his religion, of which he had none, had been examined. Was he an atheist? Did he believe in God, some vague higher power, fate, the Big Bang, or nothing at all? They had even asked about fictional concepts like the Force, simply to see how he separated belief, possibility, and imagination.
Then came the physical testing: endurance runs, strength tests, balance exercises, oxygen-deprivation drills, confinement, sleep disruption, and simulations designed to see how he behaved while exhausted, frightened, frustrated, or under pressure.
Nothing had been left untouched.
By the end, James sometimes felt they knew more about him than he knew himself.
But he had passed.
Every single test.
He’d been seen out on the firing range daily, training with every conceivable weapon, from handguns and shotguns to rifles, knives, and even actual swords. His training was unique; he could handle modern military weapons, older firearms, improvised weapons, and specialist equipment without hesitation. He’d even been trained on the M41A Pulse Rifle, learning its weight, recoil, ammunition counter, grenade launcher, and stripping procedure until handling it became second nature.
And then, for good measure, James got to meet the man of the moment.
The summons had come without warning.
One minute James had been finishing another round of assessments, sweat still drying beneath the collar of his shirt after several hours on the range, and the next he had been escorted through three security checkpoints into a part of the Weyland complex he had never seen before.
Everything was white.
Not hospital white, exactly. Cleaner than that. Almost aggressively clean. Seamless walls, polished floors and recessed lighting gave the room the strange appearance of having been manufactured as a single piece rather than built.
James stood in the centre with his hands clasped behind his back.
The door slid open.
Peter Weyland walked in.
James recognised him instantly.
Young, sharp and immaculate, certainly, but somehow less severe in person than he appeared on a screen. There was life in his face, warmth behind the eyes, the beginnings of a smile already forming as he entered. He carried himself with effortless confidence, but not the stiff arrogance James had expected. If anything, there was something almost paternal about him.
And three paces behind him walked a David.
Holy shit.
An android.
James had seen the demonstrations, the corporate footage and the carefully controlled interviews, but seeing one standing there was something else entirely. Pale skin, blond hair, perfect posture. No nervous movements, no wandering eyes, no unconscious adjustment of his clothing. Every movement seemed to exist because it had been chosen.
Peter noticed James staring.
His smile grew.
Not smugly.
Proudly.
For a moment, James thought he understood. David wasn’t merely another Weyland product to this man. Peter had made him. Perhaps not personally soldered the circuitry or assembled the synthetic muscles, but David existed because Peter Weyland had decided that something like David should exist.
It made the warmth in Peter’s expression strangely unsettling.
Here was a man who could smile like a kind father and create lifeless, soulless machines capable of walking into situations that would terrify a human being without missing a beat.
That was precisely the point.
A David could enter a burning reactor without fear. Cross a contaminated laboratory without worrying about infection. Spend years alone without loneliness eating away at him. Pull a trigger without his hands shaking afterwards.
Or, more chillingly, fire millions of people without losing a second of sleep.
Because it never slept.
James still wasn’t entirely sure whether that counted as progress.
Then Peter’s attention returned fully to him.
James snapped to attention.
Peter stopped dead.
For a second surprise crossed his face before melting into obvious amusement. His eyes travelled over James’s posture: back straight, shoulders squared, chin level, arms rigidly at his sides.
James was treating Peter Weyland like a commanding officer.
Peter smiled.
There was genuine affection in it.
“At ease, son.”
“Sir.”
“We’re not in the military.”
“No, sir.”
That made Peter’s smile widen. He glanced briefly at David as though sharing a private joke with his creation before looking back at James.
“Most people around here call me Peter. You can call me Mr Weyland.”
James smiled, the briefest crack.
Peter caught it immediately.
There you are.
The rigid candidate disappeared for perhaps half a second and the actual man underneath showed through.
That was all Peter needed to know.
“Yes, sir.”
Peter actually chuckled this time. There was no irritation in it. If anything, he seemed to enjoy James’s stubborn insistence on treating the encounter as though he had just been summoned before a general.
He walked closer, slowly, hands loose at his sides.
“Tell me, son, what do you know about Prometheus?”
“He stole fire from the gods and gave it to man.”
Peter nodded, and there was something almost teacher-like about the approval that crossed his face.
Well read.
“Yes. Bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”
James twitched.
Peter caught that too.
“Sir.”
“Speak your mind, please?”
The request was gentle rather than demanding. Peter watched him with open curiosity, apparently more interested in discovering what James actually thought than hearing whatever answer James believed the founder of Weyland Corporation wanted.
“We kill ourselves with it, sir,” James said. “And anyone we consider hostile. I’d disagree with that notion.”
Peter’s eyebrows lifted.
Then he nodded slowly.
“Hm, fair.”
There was no offence, no flash of wounded ego. If anything, Peter looked pleased.
He stepped around James, not circling him like an interrogator now, but studying him in the manner of a father watching a son attempt something difficult and discovering that the boy might actually be rather good at it.
That was perhaps the strangest thing about Peter Weyland.
For all the reputation, all the arrogance, all the speeches about gods and creation, the man himself could be remarkably human.
Warm.
Interested.
Even kind.
And standing silently behind him was the proof that Peter Weyland was perfectly capable of creating something that wasn’t.
“What do you think of our mission?”
James considered the question for half a second.
“To find new life, to boldly go where no man has gone before.”
Peter paused.
Then smiled.
It was not the reaction James had expected. The expression came slowly, first at the corners of his mouth and then into his eyes, genuine amusement breaking through the cultivated composure of a man who spent most of his life being watched.
“Ah, you’re a Trekkie?”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“OG or TNG?”
“Both. Different values, different times.”
“Quite.”
Peter nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer in a way James could not entirely explain. Perhaps because it was not really about television. Peter had spent most of his life building things that had once existed only in fiction. Artificial intelligence. Synthetic humans. Interplanetary industry. Faster ships. Longer lives. The distance between fantasy and engineering, to Peter Weyland, seemed mostly to be a question of money and time.
He moved a little closer.
“I know you like to game?”
“Passes the time, and relieves stress.”
Peter smiled again. There was something almost approving in it, as though James had just confirmed another small detail from one of the enormous psychological reports Weyland had undoubtedly read before walking into the room.
Nothing about James was likely to be new information.
His games, his books, his films, his fitness, the weapons he preferred, the hours he slept, what frightened him, what irritated him, how quickly his pulse rose under pressure. Somewhere in the Weyland Corporation there was probably a file thick enough to stop a bullet containing everything anyone had ever managed to learn about him.
Peter still wanted to hear it from James himself.
“How do you feel about this mission?”
“Good, sir.”
Peter watched him.
Just watched.
James knew that look by now.
Peter’s smile softened.
“James.”
Nothing else.
He did not need anything else.
The tone said it plainly.
I want honesty.
James twitched.
His shoulders loosened by perhaps an inch.
“I’m scared shitless.”
Peter paused.
For the first time since entering the room, genuine surprise crossed his face. Not disappointment. Not concern.
Interest.
He looked directly at James.
“Really?”
James inclined his head.
“We’re heading out into the frontier, looking for new land and a new species. We might even meet our creators.”
Peter’s expression changed at that.
Creators.
The word meant something to him.
Of course it did.
Behind Peter, David remained perfectly still, the irony apparently lost on him or simply irrelevant. Peter Weyland stood between two forms of creation: one he had made himself and another he intended to cross the stars to find.
“And yet, you’re still going?”
There was something gentler in the question now.
Almost fatherly.
James gave a small shrug.
“The Polynesians did it without a compass.”
Peter blinked.
Then nodded.
True.