Just Keep Your Eyes On Me

It was, all in all, a crazy plan.

Fandral Raoulson had known for a while he was Force-sensitive. The Corellian pilot had found records hidden away by a horticulturist decades ago, records that detailed lineages of a number of Corellian Jedi families. Not all of the Jedi had been wiped out in the Purge; a number of them had been hidden.

The Corellian Jedi, who had always kept a little bit aloof from the rest of the Order, had been among the most successful at disappearing. They’d gone underground, finding more subtle ways to continue serving the Force and their people. The line of Brandt, for example, had joined CorSec as investigators, quietly weathering the terrifying years under the Empire. When the Emperor had been overthrown, Fandral’s father had cautiously dared believe that they might be able to come out of the shadows. 

The rise of the First Order, however, quickly put paid to that idea.

Fandral’s hands tightened a little on the controls of his battered X-Wing. His parents had paid for that flicker of hope with their lives. He and his sisters had fled Corellia shortly afterwards, two of them following him to the Resistance. There he’d become a very skilled pilot, realizing he was unconsciously tapping into nascent abilities in order to improve his flying and reactions. 

When he flew, he felt the Force. He knew he did. It was there, silver-bright and threaded through his mind, his being, his ship, the skies around him, and a part of him ached to learn more, to be able to better wield it, to learn enough to make himself worthy of the gift he’d been born with.  It itched at him, being able to only just barely touch it, maddening to be aware he could do more if he just knew how. 

He needed a teacher.

And the Resistance wanted at least one of the First Order’s Force-users removed.

So a plan had been hatched- a crazy, desperate plan, a plan that had no chance of working if it hadn’t been for one thing.

Before he’d left, though, he’d found the key to those records, cleverly hidden in the genetic codes of hybrid plants developed by that horticulturist. He’d learned what was in them- most of what he’d found were those geneologies, but there’d been one or two more practical texts digitized and spliced into those strands of DNA. One technique in particular had proven key to his planned mission- a way to shield thoughts and disguise emotions. There were, the text claimed, stories of untrained Force-sensitives whose minds were naturally shielded from being read by others. 

It was the only training text that he’d been able to decode fully and make sense of on his own, and he’d latched onto it. He’d spent weeks studying the technique, layering his mind with those shields and hiding them between the random thoughts and feelings of any untrained Force-sensitive, until they were as natural as breathing and as unconscious as his heartbeat. 

Those shields- and his own nature, fundamentally balanced and firmly rooted in honor and service and compassion- were what finally convinced General Organa and the other Resistance leaders to let him try this plan.

Fandral Raoulson was going to go look for a teacher.

What he wanted to come back with was a Force-Sensitive drawn away from the First Order and back to the Light.

It was insane- and if anyone could pull it off, it would be him.

He left the Resistance after a staged row, flying off in the battered X-Wing that was his and his alone because he was the only one it would behave for. The little snubfighter was a relic of the old Rebellion, refurbished to be sure, but certainly a bit crotchety for any pilot but him. When he landed on Nar Shaddaa- a wretched hive of scum and villainy to rival even Mos Eisley- he established a territory to prowl and opened himself up to the Force, putting out a desperate plea that would make him light up to anyone with the senses to notice, making himself a beacon for those he hoped to lure in.

I am like you, a child of the Force. I need you. I need what you can teach.

Come and find me.