Mean Streets 2084 – Brutal Skirmishes In a Broken Future

Helicopters circled the night sky, their searchlights arcing over downtown below. Downtown, that euphemistic name for the sprawling, dilapidated mass of buildings and streets that seemed to stretch on forever towards the horizon. Out of this manmade jungle rose the skyscrapers of central district, and around them, The Wall. That was how everyone thought of it – no mere nameless structure, but a proper noun with capitals. You only had to look at it to see how it had acquired such a status. It stood several stories high, an ugly, enormous edifice of interlocking concrete slabs crowned by wicked looking barbed wire and set with watchtowers at regular intervals. Around it stretched a barren expanse of 150 feet or more, bulldozed and flattened to the point of featurelessness. Guards patrolled relentlessly about its edge, dark, visored sentinels accompanied by vicious looking dogs. Apart from a few patches of defiant, faded graffiti, its monotonous visage was broken only by a few heavily armed checkpoints, asphalt roads leading off into the slums. 

A youth ducked back into the shadows of an alley at the edge of the wasteland as a searchlight’s beam swept past. There was nothing technically illegal about standing there, but the first thing you learnt if you grew up in downtown was that technicalities didn’t matter a damn. If the guards spotted you near the perimeter after dark the sirens would go off and the dogs would be let loose. Runners that weren’t torn to shreds or shot in the back would be arrested on some spurious charge – loitering, perhaps – and hauled in to face the tender mercies of the A.P.Es. 

As the beam moved on the youth slid forward to resume his post. He was thin, ginger-haired and pale, 19 perhaps, wrapped in an ill-fitting trench coat that had seen better days. He wheezed slightly as he watched the checkpoint, his respiratory system another victim of downtown’s pollution. As he watched, the barriers at a nearby checkpoint began to raise, lights blinking. Five bulky vans sped through, their windows blacked out.

The youth slipped away, sticking to the shadows as he moved down the alley. He emerged into a street, litter clogged and empty of all signs of life. Even the winos and junkies knew better than to sleep rough this close to The Wall. He jogged down the sidewalk, skirting piles of long-rotting bags of garbage, his breathing laboured. At the end of the second block he emerged onto a populated road and turned right. He spoke to nobody, the collars of his coat turn up as he moved swiftly past the late night pedestrians. He slowed near a backstreet, surreptitiously looking around to see if he was being watched. Convinced of his anonymity he turned into it, advancing past overflowing dumpsters and mouldering boxes. It led to the back of a building that had once been some kind of industrial warehouse, its brick walls blackened with grime and tagged in the ever-present graffiti. He came to a metal door and knocked; two taps in quick succession, a pause, then another tap. There was the sound of a latch being drawn from the other side and it opened. The youth stepped in and it was quickly shut behind him. 

He walked up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor. The gutted building had been converted to a makeshift command post. One corner had been partitioned off by mesh fencing. Computer monitors hummed as a wiry, bespectacled man tapped indefatigably at a keyboard, the green light from the monitors reflecting off his glasses so that he looked like some weird, bug-eyed alien. A rack on one wall held an arsenal of small arms. In the centre people stood around an enormous table covered by maps of the city, notes and battered, bulky computer tablets. In another corner a battered vidscreen set to Central News stood propped on a crate, half a dozen people sitting around it on decrepit sofas.

“Can you believe they’re trying to push this bull, man?” sneered a man in a sleeveless leather jacket. He gesticulated at the vidscreen. On it, the news had moved on from covering a wildfire to the unfolding riot at PharmaCorp’s warehouse in north downtown.

“Live updates on the disturbance in downtown,” the news anchor – a woman in a red suit who’s face held the unmistakeable hint of plastic surgery – was saying. “Several employees at a warehouse are being held hostage by violent rioters outside. The police have been dispatched and the situation is being monitored carefully. The reason for the rioting is unknown, though subversive activity is suspected.” 

No one bothered to answer the man. They could all believe that Central News was pushing this bull. The youth looked at the vidscreen then walked over to one of the men standing at the central table. He was in his sixties, with unruly hair and a grey beard, wearing a faded U.S. Army jacket. He looked up from a map he was studying. 

“They’re moving?” he asked, his voice a
gruff murmur. 

The youth nodded. 

“How many?”

“Five” replied the youth. 

The man nodded, turning to a woman sitting at an old two-way radio. 

“Get everyone out of there when they get to Main Street. It’ll be tight, but they need to stick around to make sure the A.P.Es aren’t going to turn back if they feel like the show’s over.”

She nodded, not looking up. The man – ‘Doc’ they called him, or, just as often, ‘that tough old bastard’ – turned to look over at the vidscreen.’ He sighed tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The woman on the vidscreen was speaking to her co-host, a fat, sweaty man in a suit whose piggish eyes squinted at her lasciviously. They were discussing the riot at the warehouse.

“It’s the goddamn subversives,” the co-host hollered, jowls shaking indignantly as he spat the words out. “These parasites are a menace to society! They’re sponging off of honest, hard-working citizens like you and me! If those brave men and women trapped in that warehouse are watching this, I want to tell them right now to hang tight; the cavalry’s on its way.”

Yeah, that’s right, hang tight boys, thought Doc sarcastically. There were no workers in the warehouse, of course; it was all automated. The only brave working men and women on PharmaCorp’s premises were the well-paid private security goons, protected merely by half a dozen blast-proof doors, a fleet of stun drones and an the hefty submachine guns they carried. With these meagre resources, they were totally at the mercy of a crowd comprised of the destitute, sick and elderly protesting against the recent price hike of emphysema drugs. Not $10, not $20, but $50 this time. To those in downtown who couldn’t afford insurance (and who could?) it was a death sentence, an RSVP to pneumonia, heart strain and other complications. 

The presenters on Central News were right about one thing, though. The protest had been organised by subversives. A maintenance technician on a zero hours contract at the warehouse had needed money to pay for his mother’s cataract surgery, and in exchange for a bribe had tipped off Doc’s outfit that haulage trucks suspiciously ‘loaned’ from the Department of Defence were being used to ferry medical supplies into central. As a result of some generous backroom palm-greasing, a legal loophole and some surreptitious blackmail, it transpired that PharmaCorp could somehow claim a healthy tax 

Helicopters circled the night sky, their searchlights arcing over downtown below. Downtown, that euphemistic name for the sprawling, dilapidated mass of buildings and streets that seemed to stretch on forever towards the horizon. Out of this manmade jungle rose the skyscrapers of central district, and around them, The Wall. That was how everyone thought of it – no mere nameless structure, but a proper noun with capitals. You only had to look at it to see how it had acquired such a status. It stood several stories high, an ugly, enormous edifice of interlocking concrete slabs crowned by wicked looking barbed wire and set with watchtowers at regular intervals. Around it stretched a barren expanse of 150 feet or more, bulldozed and flattened to the point of featurelessness. Guards patrolled relentlessly about its edge, dark, visored sentinels accompanied by vicious looking dogs. Apart from a few patches of defiant, faded graffiti, its monotonous visage was broken only by a few heavily armed checkpoints, asphalt roads leading off into the slums. 

A youth ducked back into the shadows of an alley at the edge of the wasteland as a searchlight’s beam swept past. There was nothing technically illegal about standing there, but the first thing you learnt if you grew up in downtown was that technicalities didn’t matter a damn. If the guards spotted you near the perimeter after dark the sirens would go off and the dogs would be let loose. Runners that weren’t torn to shreds or shot in the back would be arrested on some spurious charge – loitering, perhaps – and hauled in to face the tender mercies of the A.P.Es. 

As the beam moved on the youth slid forward to resume his post. He was thin, ginger-haired and pale, 19 perhaps, wrapped in an ill-fitting trench coat that had seen better days. He wheezed slightly as he watched the checkpoint, his respiratory system another victim of downtown’s pollution. As he watched, the barriers at a nearby checkpoint began to raise, lights blinking. Five bulky vans sped through, their windows blacked out.

The youth slipped away, sticking to the shadows as he moved down the alley. He emerged into a street, litter clogged and empty of all signs of life. Even the winos and junkies knew better than to sleep rough this close to The Wall. He jogged down the sidewalk, skirting piles of long-rotting bags of garbage, his breathing laboured. At the end of the second block he emerged onto a populated road and turned right. He spoke to nobody, the collars of his coat turn up as he moved swiftly past the late night pedestrians. He slowed near a backstreet, surreptitiously looking around to see if he was being watched. Convinced of his anonymity he turned into it, advancing past overflowing dumpsters and mouldering boxes. It led to the back of a building that had once been some kind of industrial warehouse, its brick walls blackened with grime and tagged in the ever-present graffiti. He came to a metal door and knocked; two taps in quick succession, a pause, then another tap. There was the sound of a latch being drawn from the other side and it opened. The youth stepped in and it was quickly shut behind him. 

He walked up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor. The gutted building had been converted to a makeshift command post. One corner had been partitioned off by mesh fencing. Computer monitors hummed as a wiry, bespectacled man tapped indefatigably at a keyboard, the green light from the monitors reflecting off his glasses so that he looked like some weird, bug-eyed alien. A rack on one wall held an arsenal of small arms. In the centre people stood around an enormous table covered by maps of the city, notes and battered, bulky computer tablets. In another corner a battered vidscreen set to Central News stood propped on a crate, half a dozen people sitting around it on decrepit sofas.

“Can you believe they’re trying to push this bull, man?” sneered a man in a sleeveless leather jacket. He gesticulated at the vidscreen. On it, the news had moved on from covering a wildfire to the unfolding riot at PharmaCorp’s warehouse in north downtown.

“Live updates on the disturbance in downtown,” the news anchor – a woman in a red suit who’s face held the unmistakeable hint of plastic surgery – was saying. “Several employees at a warehouse are being held hostage by violent rioters outside. The police have been dispatched and the situation is being monitored carefully. The reason for the rioting is unknown, though subversive activity is suspected.” 

No one bothered to answer the man. They could all believe that Central News was pushing this bull. The youth looked at the vidscreen then walked over to one of the men standing at the central table. He was in his sixties, with unruly hair and a grey beard, wearing a faded U.S. Army jacket. He looked up from a map he was studying. 

“They’re moving?” he asked, his voice a
gruff murmur. 

The youth nodded. 

“How many?”

“Five” replied the youth. 

The man nodded, turning to a woman sitting at an old two-way radio. 

“Get everyone out of there when they get to Main Street. It’ll be tight, but they need to stick around to make sure the A.P.Es aren’t going to turn back if they feel like the show’s over.”

She nodded, not looking up. The man – ‘Doc’ they called him, or, just as often, ‘that tough old bastard’ – turned to look over at the vidscreen.’ He sighed tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The woman on the vidscreen was speaking to her co-host, a fat, sweaty man in a suit whose piggish eyes squinted at her lasciviously. They were discussing the riot at the warehouse.

“It’s the goddamn subversives,” the co-host hollered, jowls shaking indignantly as he spat the words out. “These parasites are a menace to society! They’re sponging off of honest, hard-working citizens like you and me! If those brave men and women trapped in that warehouse are watching this, I want to tell them right now to hang tight; the cavalry’s on its way.”

Yeah, that’s right, hang tight boys, thought Doc sarcastically. There were no workers in the warehouse, of course; it was all automated. The only brave working men and women on PharmaCorp’s premises were the well-paid private security goons, protected merely by half a dozen blast-proof doors, a fleet of stun drones and the hefty submachine guns they carried. With these meagre resources, they were totally at the mercy of a crowd comprised of the destitute, sick and elderly protesting against the recent price hike of emphysema drugs. Not $10, not $20, but $50 this time. To those in downtown who couldn’t afford insurance (and who could?) it was a death sentence, an RSVP to pneumonia, heart strain and other complications. 

The presenters on Central News were right about one thing, though. The protest had been organised by subversives. A maintenance technician on a zero hours contract at the warehouse had needed money to pay for his mother’s cataract surgery, and in exchange for a bribe had tipped off Doc’s outfit that haulage trucks suspiciously ‘loaned’ from the Department of Defence were being used to ferry medical supplies into central. As a result of some generous backroom palm-greasing, a legal loophole and some surreptitious blackmail, it transpired that PharmaCorp could somehow claim a healthy tax rebate for every delivery of medical supplies thus transported. That’s your tax dollars at work right there, folks, Doc reflected.

Doc’s outfit had seized the opportunity. Usually all corporate shipments to central were made via the monorails, arteries of the inner city that ran above the filth of downtown and clean over the top of The Wall. They were nearly impossible to hit; each station was a mass of security cameras and scanners, defended by a suite of guards equipped with enough firepower to launch a small war. That PharmaCorp would willingly give up this fortress-like level of protection spoke volumes about the kind of blindingly short-sighted lengths it and its ilk would go to in pursuit of a quick buck. Doc’s outfit had waited for agonising months after learning about the trucks for PharmaCorp to do something they could exploit, all the while knowing that some executive might simply overturn the policy in the endless waltz of corporate intrigue. The price hike had been the catalyst they needed. They’d campaigned relentlessly, targeting the poorest districts where the hike would be felt the keenest with laser-like precision. On a night of a scheduled delivery they’d launched the demonstration, their own agents embedded in the crowd. 

At the end everything was going to come down to a calculated risk. As the A.P.Es arrived the protestors would need to get out of dodge fast. A gun battle would break out, snipers targeting both the A.P.Es and the private security goons. The aim wasn’t casualties, but coverage. If Doc’s outfit only went up against the private security forces the media response would be slow to non-existent; just another attempted burglary in downtown. But with the A.P.Es? That stuff was catnip to the news pundits. The place would be crawling with on-scene reporters in no time. With all those cameras around, there was a significant risk that someone might notice the DoD trucks. The fallout would be disastrous, not because of public outcry (because who the hell cared what the public thought anymore?) but because of the leverage it would give PharmaCorp’s rivals. They’d raise an acrimonious stink about preferential treatment and corruption and PharmaCorp would sweat blood. If PharmaCorp had any sense at all getting those trucks out of the warehouse would be top priority, and they and their cargo (now already loaded – a spy camera, implanted in the loading bay by the technician at great personal risk, had confirmed that) would be hauling ass at the first sign of real trouble. In the confusion the exit would be sloppy, rushed, and with the cops and private security tied up the trucks would be vulnerable. An ambush would be waiting for them and whatever remaining escort detail they carried. Those waiting in the command post would be handling that duty, Doc included.

There were ‘what ifs’, of course, too goddamn many. Chief amongst them was getting the protesters out before the cops closed in. Because when they arrived that was it. No warning shots. No demands to disperse. Such genteel niceties belonged to another age. They would just get out of their vehicles and start firing, arresting anyone they could lay their hands on. If they brought a R.R.O.M with them it would be a bloodbath. 

To avoid this possibility Doc’s outfit had had to go digital. It was another risk, but Doc had threatened to cancel the mission if they didn’t. The computer geek (everyone called him that, and he wore the label with pride) was monitoring the convoy by hacking their GPS systems. As soon as they neared Main he’d shout to the radio operator (no risk using more computers than necessary), who’d relay the command to retreat to the agents in the crowd. Even with this precaution it still stank. There was no getting around the fact that the protesters were being used as bait. They didn’t know what was going on; they were just vulnerable people protesting for their right not to be treated like dirt. The worst part was that if the operation paid off Doc’s outfit wouldn’t even be able to just give the drugs to those who needed them. They’d sell them with a heavy discount, but sell them just the same. The outfit wasn’t Robin Hood and his merry men. Robin Hood had never had to pay for guns and ammunition, safe houses and hackers, computers and spy cameras, and all the other thousand expenses that sucked down money like rain in a desert.

How had it gotten this bad, thought Doc sadly. How did we get to a state of affairs where people were choking on the air, and we’re here using them as meat shields? Doc’s outfit was part of the American Underground, just another one of the numerous dissident organisations branded as subversives. There were the Liberals, the Democratic Liberals, the Free Americans, the Reformers, the Revivalists, the Social Democrats, the Outlaws, Rebel America, the Greens, radicals, syndicalists, socialists, Marxists, anarchists and a thousand others. Whatever they called themselves they were all the same; just another group of angry, downtrodden people with a few guns fighting on a wing and a prayer. In his blackest moods Doc sometimes wondered what would happen if his or any other group managed to bring down The Wall and the bastards inside. The Wall was just a symbol. There was no single dictator or organisation they were fighting, no snake’s head that could be lopped off to kill the body, just an amorphous, ever-shifting mass of the rich and powerful. You wanted to match their strength? Sure, just become them. Switch out the actors and the play would still be the same. And even if – if – they somehow managed to right all society’s wrongs and put things back on course, what then? The rest of the world was still going to hell. Food was still running out. Epidemics were cutting down millions. Entire countries had become refugee camps. Everywhere that wasn’t burning was flooding, and everywhere that wasn’t overcrowded was deserted.

At times like these the only thing that made Doc keep his faith in the decency of his cause was its opposition to the A.P.Es. In a way, he was almost grateful to them for that. They weren’t cops. To call them that would have been an insult to the memory of honest law enforcement. Doc had had a friend who’d been a cop once. It was in the earlier days, when the worldwide descent into madness had finally reached tipping point and become inevitable. His friend had been one of the small voices trying to make a stand against the chaos, ignored or reviled for doing so, and one day he and the rest of his precinct had been told they were being replaced by a new task force. He’d died in a riot a week later, killed by one of his replacements. The A.P.Es were the distillation of force, the apex of amoral violence, brutal killers fitted with subdermal cybernetics and fed a constant diet of filtered air, combat steroids and aggression enhancers through their rebreathers. They said the technology used to ‘upgrade’ them had originally been stolen from research conducted in the gulags of China, and that recruits were drawn from criminal syndicates and street gangs. Doc could believe it. In a world comprised of shades of ever darkening grey, the APEs somehow managed to stand out as an evil without peer. If Doc had one sincere wish, it was that when he had to bow out he’d get to do so clutching an A.P.E in a chokehold whilst he pulled the pin of a grenade.

Doc’s wristwatch started beeping. It was time to get to the ambush site. The A.P.Es would be nearing Main Street any moment now. Men and woman began pulling weapons off the gun racks. “All right”, said Doc, holstering a pistol and taking a long swig from a hip flask from his breast pocket, “let’s move out.” 

 

Mean Streets 2084: Rules

Welcome to the future. Welcome to a world drowning in chaos, violence and poverty, where might makes right and all the old ideas of freedom, justice and truth lie dead and buried. It’s a world devastated by climate change, a world of rampant wealth inequality and corruption, where oppressive governments and ruthless corporations vie ceaselessly for power and influence, crushing the poor and helpless underfoot. Buckle up, ladies and gents; it’s a world that’s just around the corner…

Mean Streets 2084 takes players to downtown, a sprawling slum on the East Coast of America where the haves and have-nots are separated by The Wall, an enormous barrier stretching around the city centre. There, big business and government forces continuously clash and collude in games of high-stakes intrigue, and the wealthy live it up in luxurious splendor. Outside, the downtrodden scrape a living amidst a sea of crime, pollution and want. The status quo is maintained by the Armed Pacification Enforcers, a quasi-military branch of law enforcement beholden only to the highest bidder. Fighting against them are numerous clandestine dissident groups dedicated to overthrowing the current order by any means necessary.

In Mean Streets 2084, the well trained and equipped A.P.Es will have set mission goal profiles, while the more numerous Dissidents will need to use their dirty and downtrodden home turf to their advantage.

Playing Mean Streets 2084

To reenact the fierce firefights between the A.P.Es and Dissidents that are a regular occurrence in downtown, you’ll need a 3’ x 3’ playing surface and enough city terrain to make it crowded; six-sided dice (for rolling and noting wounds); a tape measure; tokens for Concealed, Reckless, Traps and Depleted and minis to represent objectives, A.P.Es and Dissidents.

 

Minis

Minis can be of any type, but bases should be kept regular. They can be any shape so long as all humanoid minis have bases of an identical size and shape and R.R.O.Ms have a base that is larger than the humanoid models.

The A.P.Es need 6 humanoid models (two of each specialist) and 1 Large mechanical ‘R.R.O.M’ (Rapid Response Operation Machine). The Dissidents need 15 humanoid models (10 Running Men and 5 Shotgun Dudes).

 

Terrain

Terrain should be set out in city blocks. Check scenario conditions for specific terrain set-up details.  Buildings are enterable and debris plentiful. For an even game there should be gridded roads cutting between large buildings.  To favour A.P.Es make it more open, for Dissidents more crowded.

 

Set-up

Generate and set-up a mission for the game (see Missions below). Players take minis representing their side’s forces as listed under Troops and 5 ammo tokens. A.P.Es deploy first, wherever they choose. Dissidents deploy such that no A.P.Es can draw open Line of Sight (LoS) to them.

 

Gameplay

Terrain

All terrain in Mean Streets 2084 should be agreed before play to be either hard or soft, and opaque or transparent.

• Hard – Stops a bullet.  E.g. Walls, bulletproof glass.
• Soft – Doesn’t stop a bullet. E.g. Chainlink fence, awnings.
• Transparent – Things you see through. E.g. Chainlink fence, bulletproof glass.
• Opaque – Things you can’t see through. E.g. Walls, awnings.
• Enemy minis are Opaque and Soft, friendly ones are considered Transparent and Soft. All minis are considered to extend to the edge of their bases and the height of the mini.

Turns

Players take turns selecting a number of their minis not yet activated this turn and completing an activation with them. The A.P.Es player goes first each turn. The A.P.Es player activates one mini each turn while the Dissidents player activates three. If the A.P.Es player has no minis left to activate, the Dissidents player may then activate all remaining minis. Players may find it easier to note activated models with a marker. When a mini is activated remove any Reckless token on it. Once all minis have been activated at least once start a new turn. 

When a mini is activated it may perform two actions listed under their profile (see below), only one of which may be movement.

 

Movement

Minis have a movement value; it is the distance they can move in inches.  Minis move in a continual line and can change direction freely. When a mini makes a Move action, they choose one of either:

• Move (Normal) – Move movement value.
• Move (Run) – Move double movement value, remove Concealed tokens and gain Reckless token.

 

A.P.Es may only move across open terrain and their bases must never leave the gaming surface, e.g. they cannot vault walls or climb rubble piles. Dissidents may pass through or over any terrain that is no taller than the height of the mini, even if that would cause their base to leave the gaming surface.

Mini’s may ignore friendly minis (temporarily remove them if necessary) during movement.

 

Attacks

A mini can attack any enemy target within range and that they have line of sight to. All minis have a 1” Melee attack range. When attacking a target within 1”, only Melee attacks may be made.

To attack roll a D6 and add or subtract any modifiers (see below).  If the total is greater than 6 a hit has occurred, the target takes one wound for each point over 6 that the roll was.  If the roll is a natural 6 and the total less than 7 the target takes one wound.

After attacking, the attacker must discard all Concealed tokens it has. 

 

Modifiers

Wounds

If a mini has as many or more wounds as its listed Wounds value, remove it. If a Dissident mini is removed the A.P.Es player places it, with all wounds and tokens removed, anywhere touching a board edge of their choice, it counts as having been activated.

 

Line of Sight (LoS)

To check if attackers have LoS to a target trace a straight line from any part of their base to any part of the target’s base.

If the line crosses no terrain the attacker has Open LoS.

If the line crosses any Opaque or Hard terrain that is equal to or taller than the top of both the attacking and target minis or horizontal, the attacker has no LoS.

If the line of sight crosses any Opaque or Hard terrain that is lower than the top of either the attacking or target minis, the target counts as in Cover.  If the target is in Cover and has a Concealed token, the attacker has no LoS.  If the target has a Reckless token they never count as in Cover.

When drawing line of sight, ignore any terrain that the attacker is touching, if that terrain is shorter than the top of the attacking mini.

 

Abilities

Burst Fire: When attacking with a weapon that has Burst Fire a mini may choose to make 3 attacks rather than one, in return for an accuracy penalty. The penalty rises for each following shot, so the first is at -1, the second at -2, the third at -3.

Reaction Fire: Immediately after the activating mini completes a Move or Attack action, any non-active mini may gain a Depleted token to make an attack targeting the activating mini.  A mini may take the Reload action to remove up to 2 Depleted tokens. Note: only the A.P.Es have the Reload action, so while the Revs can use reaction fire, it will weaken them over time.

Conceal: When a mini has a Concealed token, the mini is more difficult to target with attack. When a mini takes a Conceal action it removes any Reckless tokens it has and gains a Concealed token. A mini can never have a Reckless token and a Concealed token at the same time.

Flash Bang: A mini with Flash Bangs may discard an ammo token to place a token within 6”, the token counts a 1” high mini, any mini that can draw LoS to it loses any Conceal tokens and gains a Reckless token, then remove the Flash Bang token.

Improvise: A mini with Improvise may discard an ammo token for one of two effects:

IED – Place a token within 1”. If a mini takes a move action ending within 3” of an IED token remove all humanoid minis within 3” of the token then remove it.

Molotov – Place three markers no larger than 1” across touching each other within 6”. The markers count as soft opaque terrain 1” high, any mini touched by 1 or more markers takes 1 wound.

 

Game End

The game ends one of three ways:

• Mission complete – The A.P.Es player completes their mission objective, A.P.Es win.
• Viva la revolution – The Revolutionary player completes their mission objectives, Dissidents win.
• Die fascists! – No A.P.E minis remain, Dissidents win.

Troops

Dissidents:

 

A.P.Es:

Missions

At set-up roll a D6 and refer to the following list to discover why the A.P.Es are in downtown.

1 – Escort – There are many reasons somebody can be important to the Dissidents or the A.P.Es. Maybe they’re an informant holding vital secrets, or some rich kid that’s gotten lost after a debauch in downtown. Deploy a mini in the centre of the table, it is ‘The VIP’. The Dissidents player picks an ‘Exit’ table edge.  Once per turn if a humanoid mini activates within 1” of the VIP its controller may activate it, if the VIP has not moved at the end of the turn it runs towards the closest humanoid mini it has LoS to; if there isn’t one the nearest A.P.E. If a mini activates within 1” of the VIP and a table edge, they may remove the VIP, if it was the Exit edge the A.P.Es win, if not the Dissidents win.

2 – Recover – Some things have to be paid for in blood. Supplies, intel, technology; all these things may be worth braving bullets for. Take 5 markers, place one in the centre of the table and the other four forming a 12” square centred on it. Humanoid minis may move one marker per activation that they have touched during their movement. If a mini touches both a table edge and a marker the player whose mini is touching it claims the marker. When a player claims more than half of the available tokens they win.
 

3 – Convoy – Some bigwig made the unwise decision to travel by car through downtown. Time to show them the error of their ways. The Revolutionary player places a large mini touching a table edge in open ground. Ensure that there is a route the mini can fit down between buildings leading to the opposite table edge. This mini is ‘The Convoy’. Remove any terrain other than buildings the Convoy touches. If it is removed Dissidents win, if it reaches the table edge opposite the one that it started on A.P.Es win.

 

4 – Precinct 13 – Sometimes a full-frontal assault taken to the enemy’s doorstep is necessary. Set-up a distinct area in the centre of the table exactly 12” square – ‘The Precinct’. Humanoid A.P.Es must deploy inside the precinct during set-up.  If at any point the precinct has no humanoid A.P.E minis in it they lose. One of the A.P.Es may escape to call for backup. If a humanoid A.P.E mini touches a table edge, remove it, and the A.P.Es win at the end of the next turn if any A.P.Es remain in play.

 

5 – Raid – The A.P.Es make periodic sweeps of downtown as they try to capture suspects marked for ‘information retrieval’. If a Dissident mini is removed by a melee attack it is arrested and cannot be re-deployed. If the A.P.Es arrest all of either the Running Men or the Shotgun Dudes they win, if they are wiped out the Dissidents win.

 

6 – Clean Up – Sometimes an objective may be no more complicated than creating a stack of bodies as high as possible. Count each time a Dissident mini is removed from the table, if the count reaches 25 the A.P.ES win, if they are wiped out the Dissidents win. 

 

Painting

The Dissidents

Only the wilfully blind could ignore the fact that America is no longer the Land of the Free. Instead, it has become a nightmare of corporate greed, political corruption and often violent repression. Fighting against this system are the Dissidents, an umbrella term for the men and women belonging to militant organisations seeking to overthrow the A.P.Es and rekindle the American Dream, by whatever means necessary. These miniatures were made using the Broken Rabble miniatures from Maelstrom’s Edge by Spiral Arm Studios, with weapons from Maxmini.

Paints Used

• Army Painter
• Army Green
• Ash Grey
• Barbarian Flesh
• Dark Tone
• Leather Brom
• Matt Black
• Matt White
• Plate Mail Metal
• Pure Red
• Skeleton Bone
• Strong Tone
• Wolf Grey (Primer)

The models were sprayed with Wolf Grey. 

Clothing and hair were painted with Skeleton Bone, Leather Brown, Ash Grey and Army Green, mixing the colours around on the different models to create a consistent pallet without making them too uniform. Any skin was painted with Barbarian Flesh and weapons and other metal parts with Plate Mail Metal. Red was used as a spot colour in the next step. However, it goes poorly over grey, so these parts were first painted Skeleton Bone. 

Red parts were picked out with Pure Red. 

The models were given a wash all over with Strong Tone.

Highlights were added using a fine detail brush and small drybrush. Most areas were highlighted with the same base colours (Army Green over the washed green areas, etc), to brighten them back up from the dulling effect of the wash. The brown was given a highlight with Barbarian Flesh, and the red areas were painted with a mix of red and white to give them a little more contrast. The weapons were washed with two layers of Dark Tone. 

The eyes were painted with a horizontal line of white and then a black dot in the centre

Where this spilled outside the bounds of the eyes, they were touched back up using a little brown.

 

Basing

Some spots of coarse sand were applied to the bases with PVA glue.

Once the glue was set, the top surfaces of the bases were painted with Ash Grey.

This was then washed with Strong Tone. 

The tops were then lightly drybrushed with Ash Grey and Leather Brown, and the base edges painted with Matt Black. 

The A.P.Es

If the future is a boot stamping on a human face, that boot no doubt belongs to one of the Armed Pacification Enforcers. Universally dreaded by all but the most well-connected, the A.P.Es are what passes for America’s law enforcement in these dark days. Although used primarily as muscle to suppress subversive activity in downtown, they are also a frequent sight on the other side of The Wall, where they act both as security guards and extensions of the endless political scheming conducted by elites. Many is an executive who’s played their cards wrong and had their board meetings interrupted by a squad of A.P.Es, to be dragged kicking and screaming from the room to some nameless fate. This model is based off a Catachan Jungle Fighter from Games Workshop, with a head from Puppetswar and a set of submachine gun arms from Anvil Industry. The figure’s upper torso was bulked up using green stuff and shoulder pads from a Cadian Shock Troop. 

 

Paints Used

Army Painter

• Strong Tone

 

Citadel

• Abaddon Black
• Athonian Camoshade
• Black Templar
• Bloodletter
• Brass Scorpion
• Cadian Fleshtone
• Carroburg Crimson
• Celestra Grey
• Contrast Medium
• Darkoath Flesh
• Dark Reaper
• Dawnstone
• Drakenhof Nightshade
• Druchii Violet
• Fenrisian Grey
• Grey Seer (Primer)
• Guilliman Blue
• Kislev Flesh
• Lahmian Medium
• Leadbelcher
• Leviadon Blue
• Magos Purple
• Mechanicus Standard Grey
• Nuln Oil
• Pallid Wych Flesh
• Russ Grey
• Slaanesh Grey
• Stormhost Silver 
• Typhus Corrosion
• Warpfiend Grey
• Warplock Bronze
• White Scar
• Wraithbone (Primer)

Vallejo

• Cement Grey

The miniature was sprayed with Grey Seer. 

An underpaint layer was applied using the Citadel Contrast range. This establishes the shading whilst also giving an idea of the finished look. The trousers and jacket were painted with Leviadon Blue (with a little Contrast Medium) and the shirt with Magos Purple. The skin was painted with Darkoath Flesh mixed with a small amount of Leviadon Blue to desaturate the tone. Metal and plastic was painted with Black Templar. 

The next stage is to apply the first layer of highlights. This is applied thin enough so that some of the colour and transitions of the previous layer shows through. The darkest areas are left as they are. The skin was painted Cadian Fleshtone, the trousers and jacket are given a coat of Russ Grey, the shirt Warpfiend Grey and the straps, belt and boots Mechanicus Standard Grey. The gun casing and shoulder armour was painted with Dark Reaper, the metal with Leadbelcher and the belt buckle Warplock Bronze.  

A second layer of highlight was blended to the previous layer. The skin was highlighted with Kislev Flesh, then with Pallid Wych Flesh. The trousers and jacket were layered with Fenrisian Grey, the shirt Slaanesh Grey and the straps and boots with Dawnstone. The gun and armour were layered Celestra Grey, belt buckle Brass Scorpion and the metal Stormhost Silver.  

To smooth the blends and reduce the starkness of the highlights, all areas were glazed. Black areas and the metal were washed with Nuln Oil with a little Lahmian Medium mixed in. The jacket and trousers were washed with Drakenhof Nightshade/Lahmian Medium whilst the shirt was washed with Druchii Violet/Lahmian Medium. The skin was washed with Darkoath Flesh mixed with Contrast Medium. A small amount of Carroburg Crimson was mixed in with the flesh wash and applied around the knuckles and elbows, for skin tone variety. Guilliman Blue was mixed in with the flesh wash and applied around the eyes, near the bionic implants and scars. The whites of the eyes were painted in with Pallid Wych Flesh, whilst the eyesockets were glazed in Bloodletter. A small amount of thinned Black Templar was glazed around the head for the impression of stubble. Finally, tattoos were applied in Drakenhof Nightshade with a tiny amount of Abaddon Black mixed in. Squad markings painted in White Scar. 

 

Basing

The base was made by pressing a piece of plasticard into some green stuff, and clipping the edges. The wall was made out of cork sheet and the rubble was made from broken slate. Undercoated with Wraithbone. 

The whole base was washed with thinned Cement Grey. While still wet, Strong Tone was washed into the corners and around the rubble. Cut-down wire was stuck into the wall to look like steel supports. 

The corners of the walls were given a wash of Typhus Corrosion. While still wet, the whole base was washed with Athonian Camoshade. Excess was lifted off with a cotton bud. The model was stuck in place with the Typhus Corrosion/Athonian Camoshade mix applied around the boots to tie it into its surroundings.  

Fiction by James Winspear

Illustrations by Kissa Maraña

Rules by Mike Hutchinson and Glenn Ford 

Miniature painting by Stuart Thomas and Iain Wilson

 

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