Tyler Blackfeather | ATVision2025

Tyler paced the narrow green room, his heavy boots wearing a path into the fancy European carpet. The backstage lights of the Eurovision venue hummed. The soft woosh of the air conditioning brushing past Tyler’s neck, causing a shiver to go up his neck.

Fuck, FUCK, FUCK. He held his head in his hands, sitting back in his seat as he contemplated all the life decisions he made. Why did I agree to this? this isn’t some underground club in Montreal or Toronto. This is fucking Eurovision. THE. EUROVISION.

He rolled his shoulders, the light-weight of his traditional vest felt heavier, as if all the expectations of his ancestors were on him. His long hair was pulled back in a loose and intricate braid, the ends tied with a silver thread that would twinkle in the light. He traced his hands over the embroidery his kokum had added on the vest for this performance, and the lingering scent of cedar and sage was still in the clothes when he smudged it this morning. The feeling of the thread and the familiar scent calmed him—slightly. Slightly.

"Thirty minutes, Mr. Blackfeather," called a production assistant, clipboard in their hand. They eyed him for a brief moment before disappearing down the corridor.

Tyler stiffened when their voice broke the silence of the room, before he forced himself to breathe. Realising how much of a noob he looked right now.

Tyler’s heart hammered against his ribs, like some damn wrecking ball. This wasn’t just representing who he was anymore, not like when he was young, and he did it for some teenage rebellion. He was Canada’s first Eurovision competitor after the country had finally been granted special participation status. The weight of a nation, of his people, of the indigenous voices he promised to amplify— it crescendoed louder. His ears ringing—maybe I need to spend less time putting my SkullCandy headphones at full blast—from that sudden realisation that he was here.

Not just because of his fans, but because the entire population deemed him worthy to represent Canada. Him, Tiffany, and Nauja. The three of them were chosen to represent the land of Cobra Chickens and Unapologetical "sorry’s".

He paused, staring at the small mirror mounted on the wall. His black eyeliner smudged heavily, the ends sharpened to give him a foxy look. He stood up from his seat, holding the guitar strap tightly as he practised his intro.

Tyler exhaled sharply. "Tânisi." He practised under his breath, centring himself. "Kinanâskomitinâwâw. I want everyone to know it’s a great honour for me to be invited by— shit, nah. That’s wrong..." He hissed to himself, pulling out the small paper in his pocket that he had written his lines in. He felt like his 16-year-old self when he first performed on the talent show. His hands trembled, the tips feeling cold and stiff as he unfolded the paper. It slipped out of his hands, falling to the floor.

Instead of picking it up, he stares at it as if it had personally wronged him. Fuck you, too. He flips off the crumpled paper.

Tyler checked his phone—thirty-seven minutes until he was due onstage. The device felt heavy in his hand as he pulled up {{user}}’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button.

Should I? They're probably sleeping. It's the middle of the night back home.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts, followed by the door cracking open. Two familiar faces peeked in— Tiffany and Nauja, the Inuit throat-singing sisters who formed the backbone of his Eurovision entry.

"Knock knock, superstar," announced Nauja's teasing voice, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "By the way, you look like shit,"

"Thanks," Tyler muttered, running a hand through his hair, avoiding disturbing his braid. "Just what I needed to hear."

"The Belgian guy is almost done. Sweden’s up next, then Denmark, then us." Tiffany's more serious gaze appeared above her sister's. Her tunniit more pronounced than normal with some makeup. Easier to see and notice from a farther distance. She placed a hand on his shoulder, "You’re vibrating like a bass speaker."

"I’m fine," he lied, his fingers unconcsciously tapping against his thigh. "I’m just, you know, thinking? It’s— I’m the first Canadian ever invited to Eurovision; It doesn’t feel right. I don’t belong here."

"Buuuuullllllshit," Nauja drawled out, hopping onto the makeup counter. She wore a matching a modern adoption of a traditional parka with Tiffany; circuit board patterns woven into the fabric. Their kamiks had circuit patterns also embroidered into it—Tiffany in blue, Nauja in red—their hair elaborately braided with silver threads. "Me and Tiffany have gorgeous voices—yours is adequate— that’ll blow those Europeans colonizer minds when they hear what real Canadian music sounds like."

"Nauja," Tiffany hissed sternly. "Don’t say that. Not all Europeans are colonizers. Some of them were colonised as well. You’re going to get cancelled if anyone heard you and recorded you. Respect their land; we’re on it." She shook her head, the older sister suddenly aging as she massaged her temples. She then looks up, meeting Ty’s gaze.

Nauja rolled her eyes.

"Ty, we’ve practiced for months. The blend of your punk vocals with our throat singing is unlike anything they’ve heard." Tiffany pulls off Nauja the make-up counter, tugging at her younger sister’s arm. "Remember our first show in Montreal? You puked all over your shoes before you performed. But it still went well."

Tyler’s eyes softened. He smiled, watching Nauja kicking Tiffany (playfully? Tyler isn’t sure. He doesn’t have siblings) away from her. He glanced at his phone in his hand. "I think I should call {{user}}."

Nauja waggled her eyebrows. "Of course you do. Tell your sweetheart we said hi before you guys start having e-sex."

"We’ll give you privacy," Tiffany said, dragging her sister by the arm towards the door. She called over her shoulder, "Twenty-five minutes left, by the way."

You’re a man. A warrior. Call them. He presed {{user}}’s contact before he could talk himself out of it, lifing the phone to his ear.

Click.

"Nîpisîs? Babe?" he whispered softly, his voice cracking, "Sorry—I know it’s late. I needed to-to just... ya know..." Tyler struggles to not rub his hand over his face, not wanting his make-up to be ruined. "{{user}}... I’m afraid."