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section7mfu2017-03-14 11:04 pm
jantojones.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2017-03-14 11:04 pm
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Bird is the Word - Pic Fic Tuesday - March 14th
As Napoleon approached the office he shared with his partner, he could hear someone, or something, screeching ‘I have the secret’ over and over. Entering the room, he found it dominated by a large birdcage, which was housing an African Grey Parrot.
“Where did this come from?”
Illya covered the cage and sat down with an exasperated sigh.
“It was sent by Marcus Wilson,” he replied, rubbing his temples in an effort to hold off the headache which was developing.
“Marcus Wilson?” Solo queried. “His body was found two days ago. He was investigating an apparent weather controlling device in the Swiss Alps.”
U.N.C.L.E. had received intelligence that Thrush was planning to hold several ski resorts to ransom by threatening to eradicate their snow. Wilson had been dispatched but contact had been lost shortly after he’d arrived in Switzerland. That had been a week ago.
“I found a coded message on the bottom of the cage,” Illya told Solo, handing him the translation.
“The parrot belongs to the scientist who developed the device,” Napoleon read out loud. “Only it and the scientist know the code to operate the device. The scientist is dead. A code phrase is needed to trigger the bird, but I was unable to find out what it was. All I know is that it has something to do with a children’s rhyme. If the wrong code is entered into the device, it will self-destruct.”
“I’m assuming the thing will stop screeching if we say the phrase,”
Illya had been trying various nursery rhymes for almost an hour but nothing was working. It didn’t help that his knowledge of English language nursery rhymes was limited. He was reaching the point where the thought of killing the creature was becoming a viable option. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, but it would solve his immediate problem, and the issue of the weather device. He asked Napoleon if he had any ideas thoughts.
“If it was me, I would choose a rhyme which was bird related,” Solo stated. “Erm . . . there’s Five Little Ducks, Goosey, Goosey Gander, or The Little Bird. Oh, I know! Sing a Song of Sixpence!”
Illya raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He merely waited for Napoleon to explain.
“This whole situation is about the acquisition of money,” Solo continued.
He pulled the cover from the cage again, causing the bird to resume its noise. “So how about, ‘the king was in his counting house, counting out his money.”
“B396 K4573 P938 D” the bird said, before going silent.
“Well that was easy,” Napoleon commented.
Illya glared at him, the headache he’d tried to stave off was coming to the fore and he could do without the smug version of his partner.
“What do we do with this bird now?” he asked.
“Just to be safe, we can’t really let it leave the building,” Napoleon said. “I guess we’ve gained a pet. What shall we call it?”
“Whatever you name it, keep it somewhere other than this office.”
A home was quickly found with the typing pool, all of whom had fallen instantly in love with the bird. It was decided that his name was to be Marcus, in honour of the man who had lost his life getting it to New York.
A few days later Napoleon handed Illya a report from U.N.C.L.E. Europe, which caused the Russian to smile.
“I guess they got the code wrong,” he said, as he looked at the remnants of a blown-up building.
.
“Where did this come from?”
Illya covered the cage and sat down with an exasperated sigh.
“It was sent by Marcus Wilson,” he replied, rubbing his temples in an effort to hold off the headache which was developing.
“Marcus Wilson?” Solo queried. “His body was found two days ago. He was investigating an apparent weather controlling device in the Swiss Alps.”
U.N.C.L.E. had received intelligence that Thrush was planning to hold several ski resorts to ransom by threatening to eradicate their snow. Wilson had been dispatched but contact had been lost shortly after he’d arrived in Switzerland. That had been a week ago.
“I found a coded message on the bottom of the cage,” Illya told Solo, handing him the translation.
“The parrot belongs to the scientist who developed the device,” Napoleon read out loud. “Only it and the scientist know the code to operate the device. The scientist is dead. A code phrase is needed to trigger the bird, but I was unable to find out what it was. All I know is that it has something to do with a children’s rhyme. If the wrong code is entered into the device, it will self-destruct.”
“I’m assuming the thing will stop screeching if we say the phrase,”
Illya had been trying various nursery rhymes for almost an hour but nothing was working. It didn’t help that his knowledge of English language nursery rhymes was limited. He was reaching the point where the thought of killing the creature was becoming a viable option. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, but it would solve his immediate problem, and the issue of the weather device. He asked Napoleon if he had any ideas thoughts.
“If it was me, I would choose a rhyme which was bird related,” Solo stated. “Erm . . . there’s Five Little Ducks, Goosey, Goosey Gander, or The Little Bird. Oh, I know! Sing a Song of Sixpence!”
Illya raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He merely waited for Napoleon to explain.
“This whole situation is about the acquisition of money,” Solo continued.
He pulled the cover from the cage again, causing the bird to resume its noise. “So how about, ‘the king was in his counting house, counting out his money.”
“B396 K4573 P938 D” the bird said, before going silent.
“Well that was easy,” Napoleon commented.
Illya glared at him, the headache he’d tried to stave off was coming to the fore and he could do without the smug version of his partner.
“What do we do with this bird now?” he asked.
“Just to be safe, we can’t really let it leave the building,” Napoleon said. “I guess we’ve gained a pet. What shall we call it?”
“Whatever you name it, keep it somewhere other than this office.”
A home was quickly found with the typing pool, all of whom had fallen instantly in love with the bird. It was decided that his name was to be Marcus, in honour of the man who had lost his life getting it to New York.
A few days later Napoleon handed Illya a report from U.N.C.L.E. Europe, which caused the Russian to smile.
“I guess they got the code wrong,” he said, as he looked at the remnants of a blown-up building.
.
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