"Sir, we've got a match. It's an old CIA project, code name Siren."

Agent Coulson turned to look at the analyst, whose three screens were covered by a myriad of text and images. JARVIS wasn't the only one that had picked up on the anomalous signals at the opera house, though the S.H.I.E.L.D. group in New York City was not aware that Stark's AI was working in parallel to them.

"And...?" he said, trying not to be impatient.

"A siren is a creature from Greek legend that has the power to-"

"I know what a siren is, Jackson," Coulson interjected, a shade of impatience slipping through that time.

The young man looked duly chastened, even though the agent hadn't raised his voice above its usual tone. "So, anyway... Project Siren was an attempt to use ultrasonic signals to brainwash subjects by tapping into and exploiting their fears and aggressions. There was also speculation that it could be used as a large-scale weapon. One of the project leaders, Rozalyn Backus, stole the tech and killed her co-leader..."

Turning back to his monitors and bringing a new window to the front, he continued, "William Cross. He was related to the family that owns and operates Cross Technological Enterprises, a cousin to the current CEO Darren Cross. Backus was convicted of espionage and first-degree murder. She's in federal prison. The prototype was never recovered and Backus destroyed the records, though she denied everything at trial. The project was shut down in 1999."

Gee, that wasn't suspicious at all. Cross was one of Stark's major competitors in weapons, or it had been back when Stark made weapons. Even now they overlapped in several technological arenas. Did this have something to do with Tony Stark's presence at the gala? Coulson didn't have long to speculate about what a supposedly-defunct, decade-old spy project had to do with Hawkeye and Black Widow's current mission. The gunshot at the opera house came through loud and clear on his earpiece.

"Barton, was that you?"


"Fuck you, Phil." Clint barked back as his fingers quickly tapped a code on grip of his bow. He was stretched as tightly as the string. "I'm not some wet-behind-the-ears punk, old man."

After all these years...

He pulled out an arrow, sighting and letting it fly toward the stage. It landed unerringly at the feet of the singer, who seemed to be oblivious to the chaos erupting in the audience. A cloud of gas began to seep out of the arrowhead. She coughed lightly, raising one hand to politely cover her mouth, then tried to recover and continue. As soon as she inhaled she began to cough in earnest, backing shakily away from the spreading vapor. Clint's hand had already come up to wrap around the shaft of a second arrow. He needed to finish the job-

Wait, what was he doing? The singer wasn't his target, primary or discretionary. This mission was about information, not assassination... nonetheless, the urge was there, growing stronger each passing moment.

Forcing himself to turn away from the stage, Clint looked down and saw what seemed like the aftermath of a hotly contested soccer game - football over here, a corner of his brain reminded him - on the main floor of the opera house. Many audience members seemed stunned by what was going on around them, sitting bug-eyed and mute. Others brawled openly in the aisles or over the seats, very WWE-meets-high-society. There was a clear space around the two people who had been shot, the reflexive fear of common men toward dead flesh that had, until a few moments ago, been living and breathing people. The killer had melted into the crowd. Even her bright red dress wasn't enough to make her stand out any more. No one else had pulled a weapon... yet... but that didn't mean there wasn't plenty of blood in evidence.

So many targets...


Cross had expected Black Widow to be here tonight, but not S.H.I.E.L.D.'s famed archer. The Hawk and his anachronistic weapon had earned quite a reputation in criminal and espionage circles. Many men would boldly stare down the barrel of a gun, but were frightened by the notion of death sneaking in on stealthy wings to claim them. It was fantastic, he thought. He would get twice as much data for his efforts. Two well-disciplined minds who were trained to resist coercion; what would they do in response to his little toy?

The fact that the singer had ceased in response to Hawkeye's arrow didn't trouble Cross. He'd expected her to be silenced by some means or another. She was only the first treatment in his experiment, the primer. He looked up at the frescoed ceiling, the Olympians painted upon it looking back at him. It was very fitting. People read tales of the Greek gods to children without paying attention to their real messages. Zeus and the others petty, willful deities had wielded immense power, but they had all fallen prey to their vices and lusts. Were the gods of today, or their proxies here on earth, any different?

The foyer of the opera house was illuminated by many chandeliers of delicate crystal, but the main hall boasted a single massive, gilded fixture centered in the fresco. It weighed more than three tons, and hidden beneath the fresco lay a steel infrastructure that supported the weight. That backbone, coupled with the hall's acoustics, made this chamber nearly perfect for what he had in mind.