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It started, like so many things seemed to, while Napoleon was browsing through a stack of (likely highly confidential) THRUSH documents. "Illya!" he whispered loudly in an attempt to garner his partner's attention without alerting the guards outside. "Come and take a look at this."
Illya looked up. "Did you find it? " he whispered back, already carefully making his way over.
"No," Napoleon admitted slightly sheepishly as his partner peered around his shoulder at the document in question. "But it is odd. Look," he pointed to the header. "They've put punctuation between the letters of THRUSH. Like it’s an acronym."
Illya’s brow furrowed. "An acronym?"
"An abbreviation formed from the initial letters of other words and pronounced as a word."
The glare Napoleon received may have killed a lesser man. "I know what an acronym is, Napoleon. I just don’t know what this one could possibly stand for."
"Me neither, but-"
Napoleon never did get to finish that sentence, because it was at that moment that the guards had apparently finally noticed the looped security footage and decided to come investigate. Unfortunately, but probably inevitably, this quickly led to the two of them being relieved of their guns and gadgets and tossed none-too-gently in a cell located at the very bottom of the remote facility.
Illya cradled his head with his hands. “One of these days it’s going to be you that gets thrown at a wall.”
“It’s not my fault you spent the whole march down antagonising them,” Napoleon pointed out unhelpfully. “Although I do think you made the tall one cry. He looked quite upset at what you said about his family.”
“He deserved it,” came the sulky reply. And then: “‘Terrorists and Historians for Rendering UNCLE agents Sore and Humiliated.’”
Napoleon blinked. “What?”
“THRUSH.” When it became clear that Napoleon still didn’t understand, Illya clarified. “An acronym. An abbreviation formed from the initial letters of other words and pronounced as a word.”
Not just at his own words being parroted back to him, Napoleon frowned. “You’ve put an ‘A’ in the middle of it.”
“You come up with a better one then. My head hurts.”
“Fine.” A pause. “…‘Tiny Horses for Ruin and Utter Scorn of Humans’.”
Now it was Illya’s turn to frown. “That one doesn’t even make sense. Are you suggesting that Thrush is actually made up of a group of ponies?”
Napoleon shrugged. “I mean, I haven’t seen any evidence to the contrary.”
(…Of course, Napoleon didn’t really think THRUSH was secretly an organisation populated by tiny horses. He had, admittedly, proposed the idea simply to get a rise out of Illya. And to be fair, it had worked.)
Illya clearly didn’t deem that worthy of response, and instead turned his attention to the outside of the cell.
It wasn’t long before a guard came by to check up on the captives. By then, they’d agreed on the usual tactic– distract and conquer. Fortunately, the guard in question was a rather junior one, obviously not prepared for the powerful wits of the two most skilled UNCLE agents in America, and possibly the world.
“What does THRUSH stand for?” Napoleon asked the guard, unprompted.
“Huh?” he replied, clearly not having prepared for the possibility of polite conversation.
“THRUSH! It’s an acronym, apparently. You wouldn’t happen to know what it stands for, would you?”
Even Illya paused in his stealthy key-grabbing to squint at Napoleon.
“Uh…” said the guard. “Tactful Harm towards Reprehensible and Undesirable Subjects?” He said it more like a question, as if it was a half-remembered thing he may or may not have made up entirely on the spot.
“Interesting! But you’re missing a ‘H’ at the end.”
“…Horses.”
“Tactful Harm towards Reprehensible and Undesirable Subjects’ Horses?”
“…Yes.” The guard looked even less sure of himself.
“Fascinating. Because neither I nor my partner here are horses, is there any chance you could let us go?”
“No…?”
“You don’t sound very sure of that. Surely you could just look the other way, seeing as we’re not actually horses, or indeed any kind of equine creature.”
“I– Hey! You can’t- how did– uhf. ”
Illya pulled a face from the other side of the bars. “I can’t believe that worked as well as it did.” He picked up the (now thoroughly unconscious) guard by his armpits and scrutinized the clothing. “This isn’t going to fit me. It’s your turn to play THRUSH.”
Napoleon stepped out of the newly opened cell door. “Is it just me, or do you think the word ‘horse’ is actually part of the acronym? Odd that both of us would come up with it.”
“Absolutely not. I think the both of you just couldn’t think of a second word that starts with ‘H’.”
With a grin and a shrug, Napoleon quickly changed into the proffered uniform. “Let’s get going before any more of our feathered- or hoofed- friends catch on.”
----
It was a few months before the subject came up again.
“Well, if you’re going to kill us you might as well let us ask one final question,” insisted Napoleon from his place on one of the autopsy tables.
“Hmm. I suppose,” came the noncommittal reply as Kracken– the professor who had been missing for the past three days, who’d shown up where he definitely shouldn’t have been and subsequently revealed himself immediately as THRUSH– checked Illya’s bonds again. “But make it quick.”
“Why are you-,” began Illya, but he was quickly interrupted by Napoleon’s slightly louder question of, “What does THRUSH stand for?”
Illya shot him a look and was rewarded with a wink. Ah.
“What does THRUSH stand for?” Kracken asked suspiciously. “For the betterment and repair of society, obviously.”
Illya fought the urge to roll his eyes and lost. “The acronym.”
“The acronym?”
“An abbreviation formed from the initial letters of other words and pronounced as a word. THRUSH. The acronym. What does it stand for?”
“Of course. The ‘Theocracy for Humanitarian Resources and Revenge’s Unit of Honour’, obviously,” replied the professor haughtily, snapping on a pair of large rubber gloves before picking up an oversized syringe.
Illya frowned. “That doesn’t even spell THRUSH. You’re missing an ‘S’, for one. You’ve just spelt ‘THRRUH’. It seems that nobody in your organisation knows how to spell.”
For the first time that evening, Kracken paused. “It’s German.”
Illya took a moment to translate that in his head. “‘Theokratie für Humanitäre Ressourcen und Ehreneinheit der Rache’ ? That’s ‘THRER’. Which is even more wrong.” He smiled sweetly, or as sweetly as he could muster given present circumstances. “Is it perhaps the ‘Theocracy for Hypocritical Reprehensibles and Unintelligent Senseless Hacks’?”
“Well-!” He floundered for a second, before angrily advancing towards Illya. “Mr Kuryakin, I was going to give you a merciful death.” He threw the syringe to the side, picking up a large scalpel in its place. “Now, I am going to make it hurt.”
“That’s Doctor Kuryakin to you, sir,” came the voice of one Napoleon Solo from behind Kracken, having worked his way out of the bonds while Illya ran distraction. The professor barely had the time to register what was happening before Napoleon dashed him over the head with a trayful of surgical equipment.
“He was unpleasant,” remarked Napoleon as he stepped around the now-prone body of the professor. “And bad at spelling.”
Illya shook his head sadly. “If he could become a professor it’s no wonder about the state of the world at the moment.” It took Napoleon just half a minute to undo his bonds, and when the two of them were both upright, he spoke.
“‘Theocracy for Humanitarian Resources’ Unit of Superficial Honour’ would have worked better.”
Illya hummed in agreement. “Although I think they may object to the ‘superficial’ aspect. Also, Dr . Kuryakin?”
“Ah,” said Napoleon with a half-grin. “Thought it might be fun to poke at his title. He’s not even a real professor. He holds an honorary degree and that’s it.”
“You do realise that my degree is–,” The sound of a gunshot pierced the air suddenly like a knife through an overinflated balloon. Several more sounded in quick succession. “Nevermind. Napoleon, you get Kracken, I’ll gather the formula and the documents. If we get split up, meet me at the car.”
Napoleon nodded, and as if on cue, the sound of a klaxon joined the cacophony of firearms and the room was plunged into a dark red glow.
And that was the last Illya saw of Napoleon for the next hour or so before they ran into each other– quite literally– at the concealed cave entrance to the satrapy.
“Illya!”
“Napoleon! We have to– are you bleeding?”
Napoleon shook his head. “It’s just a scratch. Did you get the documents? What took you so long?”
“I found a few explosives. Which is why we have to leave. Immediately.”
They both flinched in unison as a loud bang! sounded behind them. “Illya…”
“I didn’t have much to work with! Now, run .”
They didn’t actually make it very far. Napoleon had, of course, neglected to mention that 'just a scratch' was apparently an interesting American euphemism for 'rather large knife wound in my side'. Illya barely managed to catch him when he stumbled, and even then they both half-tumbled to the ground. Luckily, it seemed that they were at little risk of interception– the whole satrapy was glowing merrily and spewing out charcoal smoke.
Napoleon suddenly looked remarkably pale. “Illya…” he managed, clearly starting to drift already from the sheer exertion of running as far as he had with so little blood.
“Napoleon,” Illya said severely, untucking Napoleon’s shirt to gain access to the wound. Thankfully, it didn’t look like anything major had been punctured, but there was still a remarkable amount of blood. “Look at me. Tell me what THRUSH stands for.”
“What..?” Napoleon blinked up at him dazedly as Illya pulled his own jacket off, tearing up the fabric into strips.
“THRUSH. What does it stand for?”
“Trustworthy… Help. For Revitalizing… Urban Spaces.” Some kind of adrenaline rush had clearly kept him upright for so long. Now he seemed to be struggling for consciousness.
“You’re missing an ‘H’. Napoleon. You can do better than a THRUSH henchman.”
“Spaces and… Spaces and Habitats.”
“’Trustworthy Help for Revitalizing Urban Spaces and Habitats’? That doesn't sound particularly diabolical.”
“It’s… a cover. A cover name. Maybe it’s…” A lengthy pause. Illya lightly tapped the side of Napoleon’s head.
“Come on Napoleon. I’m sure you’ve got a better acronym than that.” Illya put light pressure on the wound as he wrapped it up in the tatters of his jacket.
Napoleon’s brow furrowed, a mixture of pain and deep thought. “Transforming… Health Resources for Underprivileged…. Societies. And Humanity.”
Despite himself, Illya laughed at that. “That’s certainly what Mr. Kracken thought he was doing. Can you stand?”
“Mm… maybe.” A pause as Illya hauled himself and then Napoleon to his feet. Napoleon was listing to one side, but Illya could support him as long as he didn’t decide to pass out. If he did pass out, well– he’d cross that bridge if he got to it.
“Training Humans for Resilient Urban Sustainable Habitats,” said Napoleon suddenly.
Illya frowned. “Once again, not particularly diabolical.” He slung a supporting arm over his partner’s shoulder. “We should get moving. Did you get Kracken into the car?”
Napoleon huffed out a laugh. “Eventually. He woke up and… started yelling at me, so I… hit him. Again.”
“What did he say?” Illya questioned as they begun the slow limp back towards the road.
“Something about doctors… and unintelligent… hacks.”
----
“Napoleon,” came a voice from somewhere behind a stack of paperwork. “Did you know that THRUSH briefly rebranded to ‘WASP’?”
Napoleon looked up from his fourth (fifth? Maybe sixth, actually) equipment replacement form. “WASP? What did that stand for? Or was that just a title?”
Illya rolled his chair back so that Napoleon could see him around the mess covering his desk. “It’s an acronym. Three guesses, and if you get it, I’ll pay for lunch.”
“Tempting. I assume if I don’t get it, I pay?”
“Of course.”
He considered it for a second. “Deal.” He would have probably ended up buying lunch anyway. Another pause. “Wealthy Attack and Sabotage Patrol.”
Illya shook his head. “You’ve got one word right.”
“Do I get to know which one?”
“No.”
“Weapons and Artillery Sabotage for Pests.”
“Completely wrong.”
“Hmm…” Napoleon scratched his head. “Can I get a hint?”
“Only if you buy lunch tomorrow, as well,” answered Illya, a sly grin on his face.
Napoleon rolled his eyes, but smiled back. “Fine.”
“First word is ‘World’, last word is ‘Patrol’.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Generous.”
“Only because you’re not going to get it.”
“Fine. Final guess, ah… World Abandonment of Security Patrol.”
There was another short pause. Illya looked, in his own inscrutable way, slightly impressed. “Close, but not quite.”
Napoleon sighed. It was always rigged against him, of course. “I’ll bite then. What was it?”
“‘World Aquanaut Security Patrol’, this says.”
“Aquanaut?! That can’t be right, give that here,” Napoleon said, leaning heavily over the side of his chair. Illya scooted slightly closer on his own. The document was, in fact, headed with the logo of ‘WASP’, the small subheading below declaring that it was indeed the ‘World Aquanaut Security Patrol’.
“That’s a horrible name for a secret evil organisation.”
“Terrible,” agreed Illya. “Makes you wonder if the acronym itself came first.”
Napoleon made a face. “That might explain it. Although it does also imply that they also chose 'THRUSH’ as their next most terrifying title.”
Illya hummed thoughtfully. “What about ‘Terrible Histrionics and Rabble-rousers Undefeated Society for Harm’?”
“I think the ‘undefeated’ part is just flat-out wrong by now,” pointed out Napoleon. “They’d have to change their name to ‘THRDSH’.”
“And that’s not nearly so easy on the tongue.”
“‘Terrible Histrionics and Rabble-rousers Unruly Society for Harm’?” he suggested.
Illya nodded. “We could spend all day coming up with acronyms, but I fear Mr. Waverly will have our heads if we don’t get all this-” he gestured widely at the stacks of paper surrounding them “-sorted by 5 pm.”
Napoleon shuddered, and put his pen back to paper.
---
“Did’ja hear the bosses arguin’ earlier?” asked the THRUSHie with the black eye, stopping both Napoleon and Illya in the hallway. “Sayin’ something about acronyms.”
“Acronyms? Was’sat?” came Illya’s half-slurred and heavily accented reply. He had opted this time for a slightly drunken approach to his cover, given the strong stench of alcohol on the pilfered uniform.
“It’s, ah, an abbreviation formed from the initial letters of other words and pronounced as a word,” answered Napoleon in his own, much worse attempt at an accent. It sounded remarkably like his regular voice. Illya shot him a look, but the THRUSHie just raised an eyebrow (the one on the side that clearly hadn’t been punched).
“I always thought that THRUSH was jus’ a word. Y’know, a real intimidatin’ one. Like UNCLE, but cooler .”
Illya and Napoleon shared a baffled glance. “You do know that ‘UNCLE’ stands for something, right?” Napoleon asked after a pause.
The THRUSHie wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, for world peace ‘n humanity. Blech. Whaddaya think THRUSH stands for?”
“ Not world peace ,” mumbled Illya under his breath, before answering, louder, “Thorough Hitmen for the Ruling and Usurpation of Society's Hubris. Or something,” he added, belatedly remembering that he was meant to be inebriated.
“Ha!” the other man barked. “Usurpation. I like that one. What about– I dunno. Twisted… Heretics. For the, um…” He trailed off, clearly lost.
“Radical Undeserved Salvation of Humanity?” suggested Napoleon.
“Yeah! That!” he agreed readily.
Illya coughed pointedly at Napoleon.
“Ah, is there any chance you could direct the two of us towards the lab? We’re new here, you see, and don’t quite know our way around just yet.”
“Huh,” said the man, giving them a look up and down. “I thought I recognised the two of youse, but apparently not. Hey, blondie, anyone ever tell you that you look like that Kury-aykin guy?”
Stifling a sigh, Illya frowned. “Kury-aykin? Never heard of ‘im.”
The THRUSHie shrugged. “One of ‘em UNCLE men. Nasty fella. Small enough to kick, though.”
Napoleon clearly couldn’t catch his laugh fast enough. Illya scowled at him, before turning back to the other man. “Could you tell us where th’ lab is? We gotta hurry.”
“Oh, sure. But you’ve gotta give me another one of those acronyms first. You two are good at ‘em.”
Illya made eye contact with Napoleon again, and gave him a half shrug. “What about… ‘Trouble Hostiles and Remorefuls, uh…”
“…Untoward and Self-assured Harm’?” finished Napoleon.
The THRUSHie gave a delighted grin. “Up the stairs and to your left. Door marked ‘Cleaning closet’.”
Napoleon nodded his thanks as the two of them began to move away. He leaned over to Illya as soon as they were out of earshot. “Tasteless Hire of Remarkably Unobservant and Simple-minded Henchmen.”
----
Napoleon blinked.
“I found it,” he said, not quite believing himself.
“Found what? The codes? Or–”
“ The acronym. ”
“The acronym?!”
“It’s an abbreviation formed from the initial letters of other words–”
“Cut it out , Napoleon. You found it? Give it here.” There was a brief silence filled only with the sounds of rustling paper. “That can’t be it.”
“It’s so… on the nose,” agreed Napoleon.
“And boring,” added Illya.
“I just… The ‘Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity’?”
“What even makes a hierarchy ‘technological?” Illya asked. “The Ultimate Computer?”
“Maybe they meant the older definition. The Greek one, an application of skills or something.”
“I’m going to blow up their Ultimate Computer again. They’ll have to change the name to ‘HRUSH’. Or ‘CRUSH’– the Computerless Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.”
“I’m sure Mr. Waverly would approve,” Napoleon said, before adding, mournfully, “If we could get out of here.”
Illya sighed. “I’m still blaming you. If you weren’t so inclined to chase everything in a skirt, we wouldn’t be here.”
Napoleon glared at him. “And if you hadn’t gotten yourself caught by the first THRUSH agent we came across, we wouldn’t be so easily stopped by a lock. ”
Bristling, Illya snapped, “It’s not my fault you didn’t take any gear with you. Just because it ‘ruins the line of your suit’ doesn’t mean–”
“Alright, alright,” Napoleon yielded. “Equal blame, then.”
“Hmph.”
“The United Network of Complete Lunacy from Everyone,” Napoleon proposed after a period of mutually annoyed silence.
Illya rolled his eyes.
“The Uniquely Nice and Contrite Legion of Employees?” he added, hopefully.
A sigh. “The Unified Nexus of Conceding and Lenient Egalitarians,” said Illya.
Napoleon grinned.