LOG: 'Got yer ears on Good Buddy?' (Protest Followup)

GM: Vulcan
Players: Jag
Synopsis: 'Jag' sticks around after the protest, to gather some additional Intel.
Date: 12 MAR 2070


((Scene opens immediately after the Protest ends. Jag has just offered to help Darius get off site unseen, but Darius opted to handle it himself.))

Jag shrugged as the suited man shook his head and walked away. Keeping his head low, the young ork back-crawled below the ridge-line and gathered his gear. Picking up the Offroader, he quick-walked it back down the hidden mule-trail until he was well out of earshot, kick started it, and circled well around the central gathering area where the protest had started. The ork knew this area well - it was pretty much on his direct route between Boulder and his off the grid home town.

Finding a concealed cleft in a crop of rock with a good over view of the site, Jag went to work quickly setting up his scanner, and keeping eyes on the site below him.

Jag grunted as he refined the position of his jury-rigged receiver. He had hoped that the position of this cleft would help with his readings, but maybe he had it set up wrong. That, or something in the area was fritzing his gear. No way. No friggin' way. Jag - for once - had been in the right place at the right time, he _knew_ that there was opportunity to be 'Got' here.

The little encryption module blinks three times, indicating it is now operating and working to crack the encryption of the signals it's collecting. At this point, there's no way to determine who's signals they are, where they are coming from or their content. Or really, even, how many distinct signals there -are-.

The Ute ork grinned tuskily as his scanner went to work. While it did 'what it do', Jag counted on his gloved fingers as he looked around his perch and went through a mental checklist. Bike stashed below, concealed in the woods from any air support that may arrive on-scene. Check. His backpack and hunting rifle next to him in the niche he was hiding out in, within arms reach and ready to roll should he get any attention. Check. The trail out of here clear of any activity as far as his 'nocs could see? Check.

If he had to run, he was ready. His bike was fast, made for this terrain, and the quietest of it's type. Sure. If he had to bail, he'd be heading west and out of his way - but a circular route was a small price to pay if he was able to turn up some useful data. Hell, even if he turned up a new MSD or Sand Creek freq to add to his catalog, it'd be all worth it.

Several signals are out there. You isolate 3 different frequencies in use. One is the Sand Creek Security Services. Another is the Ministry of Self Determination. Another is an unknown band.

A faint buzz from the scanner caught Jag's attention as it singled out three frequencies. It was on! And holy shit was the air abuzz. The young ork recognized the sound of Sand Creek and MSD traffic as he quickly keyed from freq to freq, but the third was a mystery. He knew he should go for the sure thing and peek in on some official MSD bulldrek - but he selected the third freq. Was it the shooters? Or some other party? If he wasted even a minute breaking in to some band that was used by hikers, Jag swore he'd fraggin' shoot himself.

The encryption processor shows its mathematical progress.

Problem. Once the decryption finishes? It's not in a language you recognize. It's… almost… recognizable. You'd have to record and take to someone who understands the language.

With a crack of his knuckles, Jag keyed the scanner to record the transmission on this band. Though he was tempted to simply let it record this transmission in the background while he checked on the others, the language used in it is juuust close enough to familiar that it dug at his senses. Cocking his head, he listened 'closer' - trying to pick up a familiar lingo, vibe, rhythm, or a word or two.

… Damn. You've heard this spoken before. It's Comanche.

One thing about Michael Iron-Eyes, is until his rise to power… he was a middle of no where district sheriff in Ely Nevada. The Comanche have been long outside the scope of power in the Ute Nation, a marginalized tribe broken between three nations; no homeland and distrusted pretty much everywhere.

Michael Iron Eyes, Great Chief of the Ute Nation, is Comanche.

The ork's eyes narrowed as he started to pick out familiar phrasing and rhythms. Though he didn't understand a lick of what was being communicated, he was damn sure that this third band was speaking Comanche. Comanche, the language of Iron-Eyes' tribe, his goons and .. wasn't there just something about a bunch of comanche being kicked out of Sand Creek? Or was that something else .. Jag wasn't sure - but his raised-on-trid conspiracy sensors were going off. The borders open, some huge rally is organized almost immediately, speaker gets gakked. Sure, this third band may just be coincidence, but it may just be a drekload of paydata as well. The type that'll prolly cost him his neck. Ugh.

There was in-fact, a recent purge of Comanche from Sand Creek. The very same Sand Creek who stood behind the Governor when he told the MSD to frack off.

Jag broke out his battered binoculars while he monitored the transmission through his earbud. The masses were still filtering out, but what he was interested in was Sand Creek's response, new arrivals incoming and .. he readjusted his focus on the nocs as he scanned the nearby valleys, trails, and wood cover for small groups moving in odd directions - a single, double, or triple team. Maybe fellow offroaders.

On the far side of the valley, a man on an ATV seems to be enjoying himself, despite the chaos a half mile or so away. Nearer to you, a hiker is starting up the Flat Irons. However, a trio catches your attention. A trio of dirtbikes doing that 'waaa-waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa' thing down the road, heading south.

Jag grined as he caught the sight of the bikers in his 'nocs and the sound made it's way to his ears. That was his most favorite sound in the world .. W-wait. Three riders - Could be three voices? The young ork zoomed in as far as he could with the binoculars and plugged his open ear for a moment from outside sound. The mystery transmission .. was the sound of the bikes in it, as well?

The transmission strength has been getting steadily fainter, but there does not appear to be much in the way of background noise. Maybe subvocal mikes or transduced. Either of THOSE possibilities indicates a well prepared group.

The signal was fading. Though he'd locked in on a local Sand Creek and MSD band, Jag had a gut feeling - whether it would play out or not - that the story laid in those three riders. Even if he couldn't gain enough ground to follow them, the more time that he spent trying - the more of their transmission he could record.
He quickly gathered up his gear and locked down the scanner settings so that he could keep recording while on the move. Dropping down from his elevated perch would be risky as far as maintaining a lock on their broadcast, but as soon as he hit open ground again he could hopefully pick it back up - if he even lost it in the first place. Keeping low, he quickly moved back down the incline to his bike, locked in his gear, and roared out over the trail he was on in an attempt to give the protest scene a wide berth and make his way south to try to get eyes on those three other bikers.

Jag let his bike roll to a stop as the three quickly outdistanced him and passed out of range. Hopefully whatever he got was good. He cast a quick glance back over his shoulder towards the scene of the protest in a quick attempt to gauge how 'handled' it had become. The young ork paused for a moment, then shook his head and reached into his saddlebag and to make sure that the Comanche broadcast was saved and stored. Now was probably the best time to cut and run.

So he did.

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