I made these guys up for Ascension of the Queen, and they're not, in all likelihood, going to do anything else in that story, but I sort of liked them, so I figured I'd do the journalism challenge with them, just to see what they're like. This is in the non-AU version of events, so their scene in AotQ doesn't happen.

Souls in Motion
by Lersi Gerov, for Eye magazine.

Temodi Meiem doesn't cause any heads to turn when she enters a room. Perhaps it's her size -- at barely a meter and a half tall and so thin that she looks like the downdraft from a slow speeder could toss her several kilometers, she's under the sightlines of most other humans. Her most remarkable feature -- the wavy dark hair that cascades to her waist on stage -- is tucked up into an untidy bun, leaving no distinguishing mark to alert onlookers that the Empire's most sought-after young dancer is walking among them.

Her partner, Phenin Ometak, has to take more drastic measures. Fully two heads taller than Temodi and strikingly handsome, he catches the attention of people -- mainly young girls -- who know nothing at all about the galaxy of high culture in which he moves. An outsized hooded tunic does not succeed in hiding his broad shoulders, or the sharp curve of his unexpectedly delicate jaw. A long robe is an equally unsuccessful attempt to hide his legs, at least close up. As he makes his way back to the booth where Temodi waits for him, he is stopped at least three times by gregarious young ladies inviting him to join their tables.

When he reaches the booth, he sprawls out beside Temodi, lowers his hood, and rolls his eyes. "Sorry about that," he says.

Temodi shakes her head and mouths, "No he's not."

Phenin directs a hand gesture at her that he probably did not learn in the grand theaters. She laughs, then settles into his casually opened arm. They could pass for any other adolescent pair.

But Phenin and Temodi are far from average human teenagers, as any of their devoted followers will gladly attest.

They have been dancing together since the age of six, when they were paired in a class in the Ostunu Arts School, the venerable free institution on Ancebe that operated for seven hundred and fifty years before being closed by the Empire due to budget constraints eleven months ago, when military spending was doubled to counter the increased aggression of the Rebellion following the battle of Yavin.

"There's a war on," Phenin says philosophically. "They're cutting all non-essential expenses."

Temodi smiles tightly. "I don't consider dance non-essential."

Another eye-roll from Phenin. "I drop out of regular classes and never see my parents in order to travel around and dance with her, and she still thinks I don't take it seriously enough. Someday, with luck, I'll be able to please her."

"All right, all right," Temodi says,waving a surrender at him. "He's dedicated. I wouldn't be able to do this without him. So I hope he doesn't get drafted into something 'more essential' next year."

There's no humorous response to this. Phenin just shifts uncomfortably in his seat, casting his eyes around the room, as if looking for a change of subject. Temodi's fear is, of course, perfectly realistic.

Even before the closing of the Ostunu School, Temodi and Phenin had dropped back to part-time status, as their reputation in the dance world grew. Dancing the title role in Paga -- the old Naboo tale of a young human girl who becomes enchanted by a violent Gungan boss -- Temodi won accolades from every major dance company in the Empire. Phenin's part in Paga was smaller, but when Temodi was offered the female lead in Sunan Werek, a love story from the human world of Honeve, she insisted that her long-time friend be given an audition as well. Phenin easily won the role of Eisat, Sunan's brash but tragic young lover, and the pair has not danced separately in the three years since.

Writing for Holonet News, critic Ingithe Lypsean -- not known for being free with praise for anyone -- said, "To see Meiem and Ometak dance is not merely to see a technically flawless performance, the kind of mechanical perfection so common to young dancers today. To see them is to witness the soul in motion."

Temodi sighs at the word. "Dancing is always about the soul," she says. "I don't think people should belittle technical expertise the way Ingithe did. It's important to master all the steps and positions, because you can't express your soul if your footwork isn't so ingrained that it's automatic. But dance is like everything else. Hardly anyone admits to having a soul to express these days, so any time a little of it comes out, it makes you look so much different from anyone else."

Is Phenin, the less overtly mystical of the two, less committed to the approach?

A serious look that is rare offstage crosses his face. "Of course not," he says. "I joke around, but Temodi's right. And not just about dance. Don't you see it? Go outside. See the way people are. They laugh, but they don't mean it. They make jokes, but the kind that are at other people's expense. Nobody cries, except for widows at military funerals. And it's not just the Empire, either. The Rebellion sometimes puts on a good show of being outraged, but they don't feel much either, I think. I knew a guy who ran off to join them. He treated it like a game. It's like someone gave us all a big dose of Brain-Fog." (Brain-Fog is the current Coruscantian term for Utelyphenitrin, the surgical anesthetic that is known to be a common illicit drug in some sectors, one of the primary effects of which is emotional flattening and anhedonia.)

"Anyway," Temodi says, "that's why we're working to get the Ostunu School opened again. We can afford to keep training at the private dance institutes -- the audiences have been kind to us -- but a lot of young dancers and other kinds of artists need a place to start out, where their parents haven't put so many credits into their training that the pressure to succeed prevents them from taking any joy from their talents. It's not just the physical school and the teachers' salaries -- kids need to be brought to Ancebe, fed, and housed for the length of the academic term. It costs less to keep it concentrated in one place than it does to have separate schools on every world in the Empire, but it's still pretty costly."

Phenin nods. "There used to be more donations, but since the Empire limited the school to human students, a lot of them were cut off in protest. Of course, all the non-human parents were very bitter, and most of us are bitter about it, too -- the kids who got kicked out were our friends -- "

"Ipo-Dea Ceale played Boss Otadan in Paga," Temodi chimes in. "He finished up at Ostunu just before the non-humans were excluded, and he's the one who first found me dancing!"

"Yeah, and Toana, she was a Twi'lek... Maker knows what happened to her after they kicked her out. I hope she didn't go back to Ryloth. She's so good. You have no idea." Phenin sighs. "So we're mad. But there were still human kids left there, and it wasn't their fault the Empire made... " He stops himself. "Let's call it an unfortunate choice and leave it at that."

"Good thought."

A service droid arrives. It gives Temodi a light fruit-flavored water, and Phenin a full meal.

Temodi sips at her drink. "Like Phenin said, it's not that any of us agree with what the Empire did. It's just that it doesn't seem fair to cut off the school entirely. So we're trying to raise the money to get it operating again for a year. All our earnings except for necessary expenses are going into the school fund. Some of the others are doing the same thing; it's not just us. And maybe, if we can open it all with donations, we can change the policy... "

"That would be Temodi's idea of a subtle hint," Phenin points out. "I just want to make sure that it's not subtly missed, so, paraphrased, the school needs credits. If you want the policy to change, giving donations can only help that."

But what kind of future would non-human performers have when much of high culture has been cut off to them?

"I'm more worried about their present," Temodi says. "The future will sort itself out. They need to be trained from childhood up, and if all the restrictions are lifted, it won't matter a whit if no one has the training necessary to step in."

Isn't there resistance, though, from Imperial factions, even to a privately funded school?

Phenin and Temodi exchange a nervous glance, and his arm tightens around her shoulders. "There's been some objection from the regional governor, but we're confident that we can overcome it."

"Or we'll -- "

"We'll overcome it," Phenin repeats.

Temodi falls silent. Her hand squeezes his tightly enough to turn her knuckles white.

Phenin smiles at her more softly than usual, and speaks to her directly. "It'll be all right, Temodi."

"They'll read this and draft you." Her eyes widen as she turns to the reporter. "Could you skip that part? Could you, please?" She shakes her head. "Oh, I know you can't. And it's good that people who can help us know that we mean to fight for what we believe in for the school. But can you make sure the Empire knows that we're not Rebels? Please? It's only that one thing. Phenin's not a Rebel, and I need his help."

"That's true. I'm no Rebel. I want the war to end. But what's the point of stabilizing the galaxy if we let all the good things die while we fight? We have to keep the arts going. They matter. Something needs to have a soul."

Temodi checks her chrono and stands up. Standing, she can look Phenin in the eye. "We have a matinee in forty minutes. We need to go."

Phenin shrugs in a good-natured way. "I better go with her. For some reason, I get through the crowd quicker when she's with me."

They wind their through the club, stepping gracefully between tables and groups of unconcerned adolescents. Girls wave to Phenin, but Temodi keeps him moving until they escape from the room. In forty minutes, they will enchant the highest levels of Imperial society, but for now, they disappear like a morning breeze.