By Monday, he was perfect.
He answered every question in class before it was fully asked. He complimented Ms. Hoover's new haircut without sounding rehearsed. He laughed exactly once per lesson—never too hard, never too soft. A golden mean of charm and restraint.
Even Principal Skinner, who normally twitched at Bart's very name, now offered him unsolicited praise.
"I see great things ahead for you," he said. "Leadership. Academia. Maybe even... Yale."
"That's the plan," Bart replied, flashing a grin that didn't touch his eyes.
Marge noticed first.
"Bart, honey," she said one evening as he cleared the table unprompted. "Are you... feeling okay?"
"Better than ever," he said. "I'm trying to grow."
She smiled, but it flickered. His movements were fluid, adult. His jokes had shifted—less slapstick, more linguistic sleight of hand. He quoted Twain at dinner. He brushed Maggie's hair in silence.
When he hugged her goodnight, she felt nothing in it. Like hugging a thermostat.
Later that night, she watched him from the hallway. He sat on his bed, legs crossed, flipping through a calculus textbook. Not reading—absorbing. Like someone relearning a language they used to dream in.
She closed the door quietly.
Lisa observed from a colder distance.
At breakfast, he folded his napkin before rising. He rinsed his plate, stacked Homer's, and patted his father's back with artificial affection.
"Remember, Dad—discipline breeds freedom."
Homer chuckled. "Heh, deep stuff, boy. What's that from? Kung Fu Panda?"
"Close enough."
Lisa's spoon paused mid-air. She leaned toward Milhouse in the hallway and whispered:
"Something's wrong with Bart."
Milhouse shrugged. "Isn't something always wrong with Bart?"
Lisa stared ahead.
"Yes," she said. "But this time, it's working."
By Thursday, he was the talk of the school.
He dominated the spelling bee, delivered a rousing speech on recycling during morning assembly, and helped Groundskeeper Willie rewire the irrigation system "for efficiency."
Willie wept.
"Ye're a strange lad now, Simpson. But... a good one."
"I strive for functional outcomes," Bart replied.
Even the bullies seemed confused. Nelson stopped short of punching him at recess.
"You... wanna goad me or not?"
"No," Bart replied. "But if you do, try leading with your left. Your shoulder's compensating."
Nelson blinked.
Then he walked away, slowly.
He began winning over the staff.
He helped Ms. Krabappel with her car's broken timing belt. He corrected Superintendent Chalmers' Latin grammar during a surprise visit—gently. Even the janitor, long immune to charm, began nodding at Bart in the hallways.
Lisa tracked his patterns. His routines were too precise. Every act of kindness had follow-through. He remembered birthdays. Anticipated needs. It wasn't empathy. It was data collection.
He didn't care.
He accounted.
That night, Lisa left her bedroom light on.
Hoping he'd notice.
He did.
He appeared at her door like a ghost in pajamas. "Something wrong?"
She tested him.
"What's the last book you read?"
He didn't blink. "The Prince."
"Why?"
"To understand how power masks itself."
She nodded slowly. "You're not joking."
He smiled faintly. "Neither are you."
At school, whispers bloomed.
"Bart Simpson is, like... good now?" said Sherri. Or maybe it was Terri.
"Maybe he got cloned," said Janey.
Martin, arms crossed, muttered, "No clone could be that efficient."
Milhouse just looked haunted.
He'd caught Bart—no, the thing in Bart—talking to himself in the boy's bathroom mirror. Reciting names. Coordinates. Birthdays. As if reviewing dossiers.
When Bart saw him, he simply said:
"You're safe, Milhouse. You're not important enough to erase."
Milhouse hadn't slept since.
One afternoon, Bart returned home early. Alone.
Homer was on the couch, watching TV, surrounded by crumbs and beer. Bart sat beside him. Quietly.
"Dad," he asked. "Do you remember the happiest moment in your life?"
Homer blinked. "Huh? Uh... maybe when you were born? Or that time I ate seventeen tacos and survived."
Bart nodded. "You don't value consistency. Only novelty."
"Is that bad?"
"Only if someone's watching."
Homer laughed. "Boy, sometimes I don't know if you're messing with me or not."
Bart smiled. "That's the idea."
Lisa found her saxophone in the garage. Tuned. Polished.
He'd fixed it without a word.
She brought it inside, confused. There was no note, no acknowledgment. As if the act was meant to be observed, not appreciated.
That night, she confronted him in the hallway.
"What are you trying to prove?"
"I'm not proving anything," he said. "I'm preparing."
"For what?"
He looked at her—not with aggression, but with clarity.
"For when the system notices."
Lisa started experimenting too.
She answered questions wrong on purpose. She staged outbursts. She wore mismatched socks for three days.
Nobody noticed.
Except Bart.
"You're not breaking rules," he said, standing behind her in the library. "You're testing perception thresholds."
She turned, startled. "Stay out of my head."
He leaned closer. "Too late."
By Saturday, he had reorganized the garage. Created labeled zones for tools. Installed a motion sensor above the back door. No one questioned it.
Springfield was soft. Elastic. A place where the sky could change hue mid-episode and no one would blink.
And he was its new tension.
Lisa observed him from her window again.
He read by the treehouse light. Not a comic—an operations manual. Something military. Something old.
She wrote in her journal:
"He listens now. But not with curiosity. With intent."
She flipped the page.
"He's not angry. Not even smug. He's strategic. Like he's testing emotions, not feeling them."
She circled one word three times:
Mask.
Milhouse, meanwhile, began stuttering again.
He told Lisa he saw Bart measure the schoolyard fence with a string and stopwatch.
"Why?" Lisa asked.
"He said he was 'evaluating egress points,'" Milhouse whispered.
"Did you ask what that meant?"
Milhouse nodded. "He just smiled and said, 'Escape is part of design.'"
Lisa shut her locker and muttered, "He's not escaping."
Milhouse paled. "We are."
On Sunday morning, Bart mowed the lawn without being asked.
He then trimmed the hedges into neat geometric patterns. A spiral, a triangle, a pattern that looked almost... military.
Marge clapped with hesitant pride.
Homer sipped his beer and said, "He's makin' us look like a functional family, Marge."
Maggie stared at Bart as he passed. She didn't blink.
He winked at her, and whispered:
"Keep watching."
Lisa sat across from him at lunch on Monday.
"You're mimicking humanity," she said. "But you're not joining it."
Bart nodded. "Integration is different from assimilation."
"You can't become this world's god," she said, quiet but firm.
"I'm not trying to be a god," he said. "I'm trying to be its immune system."
She stood, tray shaking in her hands.
"Then consider this your first fever."
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She listened instead.
To the sound of the house breathing around them.
To the golden boy walking the halls.
To the tactician behind the smile.
And for the first time, she realized:
She wasn't watching him anymore.
He was waiting for her to act.
[End of Chapter 2: The Golden Boy]