Goldilocks in the Crosshairs

"Christ, these idiots left their door wide open," Goldilocks muttered, wiping blood from her split lip as she stumbled into the cabin. The bears' porridge still steamed on the table—she'd expected traps, maybe alarms, not this pathetic display of suburban bear negligence. Her stolen pistol weighed heavy in the waistband of her jeans; the three drug-running bruins wouldn't be "just right" for long. Goldilocks sniffed the air—cinnamon, gunpowder, and something distinctly ursine. The largest bowl had flecks of brown sugar clinging to its rim, and without thinking, she dipped two fingers in, licking them clean. A mistake. The sweetness hit her tongue like nostalgia, dredging up memories of Sunday mornings before her father got pinched for armed robbery. She shook her head violently, fingers twitching toward the pistol. Sentimentality got you killed in this business. The floorboards groaned upstairs. They were home. Goldilocks exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, as the creaking above her shifted—footsteps, heavy and deliberate. She palmed the pistol, thumbing off the safety with a click that sounded obscenely loud in the quiet cabin. The smallest bowl of porridge wobbled as the ceiling beams trembled under shifting weight. A child's bowl. She hesitated. Then the front door slammed shut behind her—someone had circled around. Trapped. Goldilocks bared her teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. "Well," she muttered, swinging the pistol toward the staircase, "who's been sleeping in my fucking crosshairs?" The staircase exploded into splinters as Papa Bear came barreling down, his massive frame barely contained by the narrow passage. Goldilocks squeezed off two rounds—one tore through his shoulder, the other shattered a framed family photo on the wall—before he swatted the gun from her hand like she was a cub misbehaving. She barely registered the pain as her wrist snapped sideways, already rolling backward over the kitchen table, sending bowls of porridge flying. Mama Bear's roar shook the windows as she lunged from the hallway, but Goldilocks was faster, snatching a steak knife from the place setting and driving it upward into the soft flesh beneath Mama's jaw. The blade stuck. Goldilocks let go just in time to dodge Baby Bear's tackle, his claws raking her thigh as she vaulted onto the counter. Panting, she wiped blood from her mouth and grinned at the trio. "Guess I'm not... *just right* for this family dinner, huh?" The bears snarled in unison. Goldilocks reached for the cast-iron skillet hanging above the stove. The skillet came down on Baby Bear's skull with a wet thunk—not hard enough to kill, but enough to send him staggering into Papa Bear's legs. Goldilocks used the distraction to leap sideways, her boots kicking up splashes of spilled porridge as she made for the shattered window. Glass bit into her palms when she vaulted through, but the cold air outside tasted like freedom. Behind her, Mama Bear wrenched the knife from her own throat with a guttural scream, flinging it clattering across the hardwood. Goldilocks was already sprinting toward the tree line when the first gunshot rang out—Papa Bear had retrieved her pistol. A bullet whizzed past her ear as she dove behind a moss-covered log, heart hammering. "Fuck," she hissed, patting her empty waistband. Then she grinned, pulling a second, smaller revolver from her ankle holster. "Shoulda checked for dessert."