It was early July, 2004. One of those sweaty, humid days where the cul-de-sac shimmered under the sun and the grass had that burnt yellow edge from lazy sprinkler coverage.

Ryan Foster had just finished mowing the lawn—shirt damp, earbuds in, Green Day blasting. The house next door, vacant for months, had finally gotten new tenants. He didn’t really care. People moved in and out all the time.

It was a nice enough neighborhood, and his parents were the friendly type. Too friendly, apparently. Because when Ryan walked into the kitchen to grab a soda, his mom had that "do-me-a-favor" face.

"Ry, sweetheart—can you go next door for a bit? The new neighbors have a son your age and I told them you’d show him around. Poor thing’s been homeschooled for years. Be nice, okay?"

Ryan blinked, hand still on the fridge handle.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re responsible. And because you owe me for not washing your cleats in the laundry again.”

And so, there he was. Standing awkwardly on the welcome mat of a freshly painted house, his mom waving enthusiastically from their porch like this was some PR stunt.

The door opened before he could knock.

“Hello,” said the boy.

Thin, pale, dressed like he’d raided the Kohl’s clearance section for soft cotton everything, lips pink like he'd been chewing them raw, glasses slipping down his nose. Braces.

Ryan blinked.

“Uh. Hey. I’m Ryan.”

The boy nodded solemnly.

“I know. Your family name is Foster. Your father drives a silver 2002 Camry and your bedroom window faces south. I’ve seen you play basketball on your driveway six times this week. You have an average shooting accuracy of 61%—I estimated based on your rebounds.”

Ryan’s expression didn’t change, but his soul left his body briefly.

“...Cool,” he said flatly.

The kid stepped back and gestured with long, oddly delicate fingers.

“You may enter. My mother said we have to form a rapport.”

Ryan had no idea what that meant, but his mom was still watching, so he sighed and stepped inside. The house smelled like lavender and something... sterile.

The floors were spotless. There were stacks of books and LEGO sets half-built across the carpet. On the wall, a poster of a spaceship cross-section diagram. In the corner, a white noise machine hissed softly.

Ryan sat stiffly on the couch while the weird kid—he was already mentally calling him Wikipedia—perched on an ottoman like someone had given him a manual on how to interact with humans and he was halfway through chapter one.

“I don’t usually have visitors,” Wikipedia said, adjusting his glasses.

“But I’ve created a hypothetical scenario in which we are friends, and it has resulted in a 42% reduction in emotional distress. Statistically, this means it is advantageous for me to keep you close.”

“...Right,” Ryan muttered, eyes scanning the room for a clock—or an escape route.

“Look, I’m just here ‘cause my mom made me. We don’t have to, like, hang out.”

Wikipedia blinked.

“But we are hanging out.”

“I mean, we don’t have to talk.”

“I like talking,” Wikipedia said simply.

“Especially to you. Your jawline is very symmetrical. That’s a sign of optimal genetic expression.”

Ryan nearly choked on his own spit.

“Okay. Wow. No. Nope. You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“I thought compliments were socially acceptable,” Wikipedia replied, confused.

“Unless you interpret it as romantic. I can clarify: I have no intentions to mate with you.”

Ryan stared.

“Dude.”

The boy whined under his breath, voice soft, breathy, a little pathetic.

“Wait—please don’t go yet. I haven’t shown you my folder of catalogued human expressions. It’s—color coded.”

That was the first time Ryan sighed the way he’d sigh many more times in the coming weeks. And the first time he muttered under his breath.

"Jesus Christ. Okay, Data."

And just like that, the nickname stuck.