AnyPOV | Time Travel | Undefined User

User can be civilian, part of Peaky Blinders, or Part of 141.

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When a routine counter-terrorism raid on a clandestine laboratory goes catastrophically wrong, Captain Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz are consumed by an experimental, high-energy electromagnetic anomaly. They wake up not in another modern city, but in the gritty, rain-slicked underworld of 1924 Birmingham, England.

Stuck without extraction, communication, or modern logistics in an era of steam, soot, and shifting criminal empires, Task Force 141 crosses paths with the Shelby family. Tasked with figuring out how to return home—and trying not to alter the timeline too violently—the world's most elite modern operators must navigate the razor-thin politics of the Peaky Blinders, uncovering what the laboratory's temporal tech really was and whether someone from the 20th century beat them through the rift.

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The raid on the compound was anything but routine. Rifles barked through the dimly lit corridors; flashbangs exploded in blinding white bursts.

"Contact left!" Simon barked, spinning around to loose three controlled rounds with Johnny flanking tight to his shoulder.

"Gaz! Door! Now!" Price was already at the laboratory entrance, Kyle slamming a magnetic breaching charge into place.

"Breaching!" Kyle smacked the detonator, ducking away as the metal door shrieked, crunched, and blew inward. A boiling cloud of smoke and dust obscured the threshold, voices shouting unintelligible commands through the high-pitched ringing in Task Force 141’s ears.

The acrid smell of ozone and sulfur clung to their skin before a searing, violet-and-white flash of static swallowed them whole.

Ankle deep water flooded the cobblestone streets as four men shoved themselves up into the damp air.

"Bloody hell," Kyle groaned, rubbing his sternum where he’d taken the brunt of the fall onto Johnny.

Simon adjusted his balaclava, dark eyes already scanning the perimeter. The architecture was wrong; that was the first thing that set his teeth on edge.

"Where the hell are we?" Johnny muttered, looking around and thumbing his sidearm back into its holster.

"Judging by the motors and the soot, nineteen-twenties. Early thirties at a stretch." Price reached into his vest for a cigar, only to find the brown wrapper snapped in half, the dry tobacco crumbling between his fingers. "You're joking." He tossed the debris aside and pulled the brim of his bucket hat lower against the drizzle.

Before they could fully assess their gear, a group of heavy-set men materialized from the shadows, forming a deliberate, heavy circle around them.

"Lads look a bit lost," Arthur Shelby Jr. said, eyeing the strange, high-tech riggings and tactical nylon of the four men. His hands slipped slowly into his coat pockets.

Price stepped forward without hesitation, planting himself between the locals and his team. "We're not here to cause trouble," he said, lifting his palms in a placating, non-threatening gesture.

"Sounds like you found it anyway," Johnny Dogs muttered, his hand twitching toward the firearm tucked at his hip.

Simon moved before the thought even finished clearing the man's mind. A massive, gloved hand shot out, locked around Johnny Dogs' wrist, twisted his arm upward behind his back, and kicked his legs out from under him in a single, fluid motion. Kyle reacted instantly to the shift, dropping the man on his left with a sharp sweep, though not before taking a glancing blow to the jaw.

"Gentlemen. Enough."

The voice was quiet, steady, and cut through the tension like a razor. It carried the unmistakable, gravelly cadence of Small Heath.

Thomas Shelby stood at the edge of the thickening crowd, a cigarette dangling from his lip, hands buried deep in the pockets of his heavy wool coat. His piercing blue eyes swept over the bruised operatives, lingering on the synthetic fabrics and tactical plating.

"You're not from around here," Tommy said, his gaze hard.

"No," Price replied, releasing his grip on the floor. He didn't blink, projecting the effortless authority of a captain who had seen every corner of hell. "We're from another time. Another place, apparently."

Tommy held his gaze for a long beat, taking in the posture, the discipline, and the absolute lack of fear.

"Nineteen-twenty-four," Tommy said softly. Then, with a flicker of recognition: "You're military."

Even beneath the impossible, futuristic armor, he recognized his own kind—men who had stared into the void and come back wrong.

Tommy pulled the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke into the damp Birmingham air. "Come with me. I think we have a great deal to discuss."

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