I thought it would be fun to have a thread where we take an OTL TV show, and then throw an AH spin on it and the present a few paragraphs in the form of a vignette. So in that spirit, here goes:
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Fahking snow again. Christ, as if things weren't bleak enough in December, he thought as he gazed out the window. His clock read 7:06A. He realized he could snooze just a bit more, especially with the decline of traffic since the beginning of the war. And just as he finished that thought, the phone rang. He picked up on the third ring.
"Morning Detective, it's Flaherty at operations. There's a body that's been found down at the container docks in Charlestown this morning. The MPs and NCIS are expecting you."
"Okay, have you called Miller yet?"
"Yeah, he said he'd meet you down there at 8 AM."
"Okay, I might not make it until 8:15 though. The war hasn't eliminated all traffic, you know."
"All right."
He took a quick minute shower, brushed his teeth, threw on his uniform, and headed out the door at exactly 7:30. The traffic from Somerville through Cambridge to Back Bay and onto the Port of Boston was maybe half what it had been before the balloon went up. He was lucky to have still retained his own car, which he drove infrequently; his usual driver was on a few days leave. The T was slammed beyond comprehension these days.
He turned on the radio; the news from the front hadn't changed. Bloody stalemate on the whole, there had been a counteroffensive around Narvik that had half succeeded. Norway was a bit of a sideshow, though. In brighter news, the Bruins had pulled it out 4-3 over the Flyers last night. Small victories.
The Port of Boston made it's way into view at 8:07. Not half bad. He approached the gate, where an MP was waiting.
"You're the detective from the Staties they sent down right?"
"Yes, that's me." He said, handing over ID.
"Head down about a hundred yards and hang a right. Everyone's waiting for you."
He did as was told and soon he saw Paul Miller waiting for him, along with an NCIS car. Due to the war jurisdiction was murky.
As he hopped out of the car, something roared overhead. He looked up and caught an S-3 Viking flooring it, heading east. He looked out over the ocean and saw two plumes of smoke on the horizon. Victor, Charlie, or Oscar? More good men dead, Christ, did this year need to get to an end.
He walked over to the crime scene.
"My name's Foyle. I'm a cop. What do we have......"
It was just another day in 1984. In the background, the newsreader was bleating something about the efforts to relieve Warsaw Pact pressure south of Hanover.......
What This Is: Foyle's War, pulled forward over 40 years in time and 3,000 miles westward. It's set in a world where the '83 Able Archer War scare convinces Andropov to kick off World War III in early June of 1984, and his kidneys actually hold out that long.
___________________________________________________________________
Fahking snow again. Christ, as if things weren't bleak enough in December, he thought as he gazed out the window. His clock read 7:06A. He realized he could snooze just a bit more, especially with the decline of traffic since the beginning of the war. And just as he finished that thought, the phone rang. He picked up on the third ring.
"Morning Detective, it's Flaherty at operations. There's a body that's been found down at the container docks in Charlestown this morning. The MPs and NCIS are expecting you."
"Okay, have you called Miller yet?"
"Yeah, he said he'd meet you down there at 8 AM."
"Okay, I might not make it until 8:15 though. The war hasn't eliminated all traffic, you know."
"All right."
He took a quick minute shower, brushed his teeth, threw on his uniform, and headed out the door at exactly 7:30. The traffic from Somerville through Cambridge to Back Bay and onto the Port of Boston was maybe half what it had been before the balloon went up. He was lucky to have still retained his own car, which he drove infrequently; his usual driver was on a few days leave. The T was slammed beyond comprehension these days.
He turned on the radio; the news from the front hadn't changed. Bloody stalemate on the whole, there had been a counteroffensive around Narvik that had half succeeded. Norway was a bit of a sideshow, though. In brighter news, the Bruins had pulled it out 4-3 over the Flyers last night. Small victories.
The Port of Boston made it's way into view at 8:07. Not half bad. He approached the gate, where an MP was waiting.
"You're the detective from the Staties they sent down right?"
"Yes, that's me." He said, handing over ID.
"Head down about a hundred yards and hang a right. Everyone's waiting for you."
He did as was told and soon he saw Paul Miller waiting for him, along with an NCIS car. Due to the war jurisdiction was murky.
As he hopped out of the car, something roared overhead. He looked up and caught an S-3 Viking flooring it, heading east. He looked out over the ocean and saw two plumes of smoke on the horizon. Victor, Charlie, or Oscar? More good men dead, Christ, did this year need to get to an end.
He walked over to the crime scene.
"My name's Foyle. I'm a cop. What do we have......"
It was just another day in 1984. In the background, the newsreader was bleating something about the efforts to relieve Warsaw Pact pressure south of Hanover.......
What This Is: Foyle's War, pulled forward over 40 years in time and 3,000 miles westward. It's set in a world where the '83 Able Archer War scare convinces Andropov to kick off World War III in early June of 1984, and his kidneys actually hold out that long.
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