[u]Skies over Coruscant, East of the Runway AO[/u]

Olvar raced through the clear skies, the familiar, comforting feeling of his slightly-vibrating ship enveloping him in his cockpit. His engines were throttled up, and as he raced to the barely-visible dogfight that more resembled a ball of yarn than a pitched battle he felt the giddy anticipation of combat, the adrenaline flooding his system, his heart beating faster than any time outside a cockpit. A tilt of his head brought his wingman into view, Ivan Krnov's sleek twin-engined fighter steady as a rock below his left wing, matching the supersonic speed with ease. In the distance, he could make out the silhouettes of Fifth Squadron, the pairs of craft in a loose formation.

Olvar had to admire the BB. Despite the truly awful name, it was an excellent craft: great acceleration, excellent armor and shields, and an armament surpassing anything the Pubs had on call. He was told they were bloody expensive, but he didn't get paid enough to worry about that: all he cared about was that the fighter could do work, and in this case it absolutely could.

As he approached the tumbling, buzzing ball of combat, he could begin to make out the shapes his targeting computer was highlighting. The six-winged ARC-170s chasing or being chased by what was left of 4th Sqadron's 22s. His body tensing for the imminent engagement, and as he watched a number of Pub fighters break off to engage the approaching squadron, he keyed his comms, broadcasting his baritone to every friendly fighter in range.

"4th squadron, this is Major Poplen with the 5th. Continue to engage and prepare for reinforcement. 5th squadron, engage on your own initiative. Good luck gentlemen, out."

As soon as he clicked off the comms, he picked his first target and made to engage. Some brave clone charging way out in front, probably looking to make a name for himself. Olvar could understand: downing an enemy ace was the dream of every honest fighter pilot in the galaxy, and the white-painted 22 he was in broadcasted who he was fairly clearly. Unfortunately for this brave clone, Olvar didn't plan on getting taken out by some nobody.

The clone pilot began to slow down in order to fire, and while this was no doubt the correct move against droids, relying on the textbook against sentient veterans would only get you shot down. Olvar gunned the engine, rolling slightly to dodge the oncoming ripples of light, and blew right past the clone, not bothering to shoot with the amount of turbulence and afterburner wobble. In his rear viewscreen Olvar could see the clone roll right and ascend, speeding back up, and Olvar knew the clone was toast. He used his speed to turn faster, and joined the clone in his ascent, square on the doomed fighter's tail. A squeeze of the trigger and the laser cannons on the 22 tore through the rear shields like paper, the rear gunner not able to fire once before being incinerated.

Unfortunately for Olvar, his after-kill high was interrupted by a pilot's most feared noise: missile lock. He began to evade, but quickly realized that he had a rare opportunity; the crippled Pub air defense had let Olvar keep his countermeasures stored up, and it was with great relish that he released the entirety of his stored backup plan, nearly fifty kilos of superheated shrapnel flying in every direction. A second later, the missile lock stopped its blaring. Olvar, not one to waste an opportunity, took advantage of the likely confusion the spray of blindingly bright metal caused his pursuer, and began to spin his craft in a barrel roll, reducing his speed dramatically. The pursuing pilot was no slouch, unlike his now-dead friend, and managed to join Olvar in his roll, falling into the deadly scissor dance. This was acceptable: he'd bet anything that he could out-fly a clone, and as he tightened his roll and began shaving off more and more speed till he was almost stalling, the ARC-170 came in front of him, a little too fast for its own good. Another squeeze of the trigger and the left wing exploded, the rear gunner landing a pair of grazing shots, easily deflected by the Olvar's shields, before the ARC tipped into a dive and span out of control.

A quarter of an hour later the fight was over, one more kill coming Poplen's way. 4th had taken nearly 50% casualties, 5th nearing 20%, and if first counts were to be trusted the republic were down the better part of three of its more seasoned squadrons, inferior pilots diced in inferior planes, without the comforting support of the massive AAA emplacements far below. It was by no means the last battle: clone air units would be pouring into the AO, trying to intercept the CIS' air support which was likely even now dropping munitions right on the heads of hapless troopers [and jedi, if lucky]. Returning to their patrol and absorbing 4th squadron, Poplen made his way slowly back to the runway's airspace, gaining as much altitude as possible and letting the computer do the spotting for him, trying to recover from the shakes and nausea that any honest pilot will admit to after a fight.