The day probably wouldn't have been complete without at least one jump-scare, as Ontos clawed a 'hand' upon Matryoshka's 'shoulder' in order to get Sparr's attention. The arillery-barrage had knocked out her long-range comms, and Glashya wasn't particularily happy about nearly getting fragged just because Sparr's competitiveness made her get an extra-itchy trigger-finger.

Short range comms worked fine, though.

"Not that I don't appreciate you trying to bail us out of the frying-pan, but it would've been nicer had you waited for clearance from the folks downrange before deciding to loose some rounds danger-close to friendlies."

As the two frames were next to each other, the dimunitive size of Ontos barely standing chest-high to Matryoshka, and with half the mass if one excluded any fresh shrapnel embedded within the frame. Behind it laid the almost completely obliterated racer that took a 105mm shell and bracketed by some untold number of pressman-rockets. The only proof one would find of there being no pilot was the complete lack of blood spurting out from the spot where the pilot should've been sitting.

"I'll get you your ten, double or nothing if we have to dig Kewal out of one of these dunes."