Chapter 1: The Briefcase
Arthur Pundle was a man who lived his life in lowercase letters. He was the sort of person who apologized to automatic doors when they didn't open fast enough. He was an actuary by trade, a worrier by hobby, and currently, the unwitting owner of the most dangerous briefcase in the Western Hemisphere.
He sat on the 14:05 express train to Brussels, sweating through a shirt that was advertised as "breathable" but was currently behaving like cling film.
Opposite him sat a man who looked like he had been carved out of a granite block by an angry sculptor. The man, whose neck was wider than Arthur's future, was staring at the silver briefcase on the rack above Arthur's head.
Arthur cleared his throat. "Nice weather," he squeaked.
The Granite Man blinked. It sounded like two dry stones clicking together. "The weather is irrelevant. The time is nigh."
"Right," Arthur said. "Nigh. Totally. Is that... is that a local time zone?"
The train shrieked as it banked around a curve. The silver briefcase above Arthur wobbled. This was bad. Arthur's own briefcase contained a slightly warm egg salad sandwich and a draft report on the actuarial risks of owning a hamster. This briefcase, however, which he had accidentally grabbed from the platform café in a caffeine-deprived haze, felt heavy. Important. Explosive.
"Give me the asset," Granite Man said, standing up. He filled the aisle. The air conditioning seemed to give up and die in his presence.
"The asset?" Arthur clutched his chest. "You mean the... sandwich? It's egg salad. I used a bit too much paprika, honestly. It's an acquired taste."
Granite Man reached into his jacket. He didn't pull out a wallet. He pulled out a gun with a silencer so long it looked like a telescope.
"The Prometheus Drive," Granite Man growled. "Hand it over, or I will redesign your facial symmetry."
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded Arthur's veins. He did what any highly trained actuary would do in a life-or-death situation. He threw a hot cup of Earl Grey tea into the man's face and screamed, "IT'S DECAF!"
Chapter 2: The Chase (at 4 mph)
Arthur scrambled over the seat, his limbs flailing like a spider on ice skates. He grabbed the silver briefcase and sprinted—or rather, shuffled rapidly—down the train car.
"Stop!" roared Granite Man, wiping scalding bergamot water from his eyes.
Arthur burst into the next carriage. It was the Quiet Zone.
"He's got a gun!" Arthur screamed.
The passengers—mostly businessmen and students—looked up and shushed him aggressively.
"Sorry," Arthur whispered frantically, sprinting down the aisle on tiptoes. "There is a very large man with a firearm who wishes to murder me. Shhh."
He reached the vestibule between cars just as the door behind him exploded inward. Granite Man was pissed. Arthur fumbled with the sliding door to the Buffet Car. It was stuck.
"Open, you demon!" Arthur kicked the door. It didn't budge.
Granite Man racked the slide of his pistol. "End of the line, little accountant."
Arthur looked at the briefcase. He looked at the villain. He looked at the emergency glass case housing a small red axe. He grabbed the axe. It was surprisingly heavy.
"Stay back!" Arthur warned, brandishing the axe. "I have... very poor hand-eye coordination!"
Granite Man stepped forward. "You are annoying. I will enjoy this."
Suddenly, the train lurched violently. The Buffet Car door slid open. Arthur tumbled backward into the smell of stale croissants, landing directly on a nun.
"Bless you," she grunted, shoving him off.
Arthur scrambled up. "Sister, run! He's after the Prometheus Drive!"
The nun looked at the silver briefcase, then at the Granite Man entering the car. Her eyes narrowed. She reached into her habit and pulled out a Glock 19.
"Identify yourself," the Nun commanded, aiming at Granite Man.
Arthur's jaw hit the floor. "Is everyone on this train armed? Is there a convention?"
Chapter 3: The Countdown
"Agent 42," Granite Man sneered at the Nun. "I should have known the Vatican was involved."
"The drive belongs to the Holy See," the Nun (Agent 42) declared. "Get down, civilian!"
Arthur dove behind the snack trolley just as bullets began to fly. Pew-thwip! Pew-thwip! Packets of salted peanuts exploded like confetti. A stray bullet punctured a can of ginger ale, spraying Arthur in the face.
"My actuarial tables!" Arthur moaned, hugging the briefcase. "This falls under 'Force Majeure'!"
"Open the case!" the Nun shouted over the gunfire. "Arm the protocol! It's the only way to stop him!"
"Me?" Arthur squeaked.
"Do it! The code is the Fibonacci sequence up to the fifth digit!"
Arthur stared at the briefcase. It had a digital keypad. Fibonacci. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5. He punched it in. The locks clicked open with a satisfying thunk.
Arthur threw the lid open, expecting a nuclear core, or a biological weapon, or perhaps the lost crypto keys to the universe.
Inside sat a single, red digital clock counting down from 00:59. Wired to it was...
"Is that a wheel of Brie?" Arthur asked.
It was. It was a wheel of premium French cheese with wires stuck into it.
"It's the Fromage-Flux Bomb!" Granite Man gasped, actually lowering his gun. "You madwoman! You'll kill us all! The smell alone will linger for centuries!"
"It's a biological deterrent!" The Nun yelled. "Arthur, throw it!"
"Throw the cheese?"
"THROW THE CHEESE!"
"I am lactose intolerant!" Arthur wailed, but he grabbed the device. The timer beeped. 00:10... 00:09...
Granite Man's eyes went wide. He turned and ran. "I am not dying by dairy! I have dignity!"
Arthur stood up, holding the ticking cheese. The window of the buffet car was open a crack.
"Fire in the hole!" Arthur screamed, channeling every action movie he'd ever seen, and hurled the briefcase out the window.
It sailed into the Belgian countryside.
Arthur and the Nun hit the deck.
There was a distant, muffled thump. Then, a shockwave. Not of fire, but of a fine, white powder that drifted through the open window. It smelled like a gym sock that had been aged in a cellar for forty years.
Chapter 4: The Aftermath
Silence reigned in the Buffet Car.
The Nun stood up, dusting off her habit. She holstered her Glock. "Well done, civilian. You neutralized the threat and distributed the particulate matter over an unpopulated cow pasture."
Arthur sat amidst the ruins of the snack trolley, covered in ginger ale and peanut dust. "I just wanted to go to a conference on spreadsheet formatting," he whispered.
The train began to slow down as it approached Brussels.
The Nun fixed her veil. "We will never speak of this. You saw nothing. You are nothing." She reached into her pocket, pulled out a gold coin, and flicked it to him. "For your trouble. Buy yourself a new shirt."
She turned and marched out of the carriage.
Arthur sat there for a long time. His heart rate was slowly dropping from 'techno beat' to 'heavy metal drummer'. He looked down at the gold coin. It was embossed with the Pope's face winking.
He stood up, his legs shaking, and grabbed his own briefcase—the one with the egg salad—which had miraculously survived under a seat.
He walked out onto the platform in Brussels. The sun was shining. Birds were singing. He was alive.
He took a bite of his egg salad sandwich. It was soggy, warm, and tasted faintly of adrenaline.
"Best sandwich of my life," Arthur murmured.
He checked his watch. He was only five minutes late. If he ran, he could still make the keynote speech on 'Pivot Tables: The Silent Killer.'
Arthur Pundle started to run, clutching his sandwich like a grenade, ready for whatever the universe—or the dairy industry—threw at him next.