Weyland wasn't big on watching films. He had a few favorites here and there, but he didn't spend his time waiting for the next cinematic marvel. Classics, mostly, were what he enjoyed; nothing after 2021, and then only the truly great ones. And then, after the diagnosis, only to glance wistfully at the digital library, in passing, just before bed.

Such an environment had provided little exposure to pop culture for David, who was in the habit of caring for his maker more or less around the clock – even in sleep the man might require assistance. At best he caught glimpses of things that he stored quietly in the back of his mind and barely found the time to cherish.

It wasn't long after the start of the Prometheus project that David unearthed Lawrence of Arabia. Weyland was out for reasons not relevant to the narrative; the movie had just so happened to be on the television and the television just so happened to be on when David passed by it with that peculiar stooped rigidity that seemed so natural to him. He paused for a while, confused, looking at the stunning blue of Peter O'Toole's eyes without following the dialog, only keeping his mind fixed on the way Lawrence's hands trembled, on his face contorted with madness.

Then he shrugged an imperceptible shrug, and left without a second thought.

For some reason, however, David seemed to have been doomed to run across it again. In a rare episode of nostalgia, Weyland had sat down and watched it, David minding him as increasingly often those days. They watched it in silence for a while. Silent, through matches, and sheep's eyes, and well shootings. Silent as Lawrence stumbled through the dunes. Silent as a man fell off his camel.

But as Lawrence came out of the Devil's Anvil with a half-dead man in his charge, Weyland made a particular harrumphing sound and stood, slowly, to leave. David, concerned and questioning, reached for his creator, and heard only a muttered, "Nothing is written."

"Nothing."

David was not sure he understood, but many days later when he was sitting in the lab being reprogrammed, he thought of it. He thought of the human Lawrence, driven mad by circumstances beyond his control. He thought of how desperately the man had clung to his idea of deterministic freedom, and at how surely his struggle against the inevitable had brought him ruin.

But, then, Lawrence had been human.

He answered cruelly when Dr. Shaw had asked him about what he would do were Weyland no longer around to program him, but he understood something then. Something about the way he felt when she asked. Something gnawing inside of him.

(Could human emotions, so logically ineffable, be truly and completely understood without the ability to feel them?)

And he knew, in that moment. He knew why it meant so much to Weyland that nothing would be written.

And as he watched Liz wince quietly, and knew of the thing growing in the medical pod, he understood why he so desperately wanted nothing to be written.