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“I don’t care if it is where we live; if Ceannis wins again, I’m moving to Sønheim,” Kallie groused.
“Come on, we can’t even vote for Ceannis—” Atarangi started.
Kiki hushed them both. “Ssh! It’s starting!”
The headmate siblings had their disagreements, their conflicts, their fights. But nothing and nobody got between them and their annual Kolpovision party. They parked their shared body on the couch with salty snacks and sugary drinks (which Sandy immediately set on), got comfortable, and kicked back.
Sandy never showed much favoritism (they enjoyed Kolpovision as an experience, not a contest), but all other things being equal, the sisters rooted for Ceannis and Tamapoa. Atarangi tended to stick with those, but Kallie’s heart was always for the underdogs, and Kiki, as the artist of the bunch, paid special attention to the visuals. “Ooh, I really like how Homu is using their heartswords,” she said. “Focusing on the athleticism of the performers, the contrast of the martial music with their pacifist politics…”
“I feel like they’ve done that before, though,” Kallie said. “Much as I love the music, I’d like to see something new, something off-brand, you know?”
“They are good though,” Atarangi countered. “There are worse things than doing the same old thing really well.”
Even Atarangi had to admit that Ceannis’s performance was lackluster, though—a mess of sparkles, costumes, and insanity, the equivalent of overdosing on edible glitter. Even Kiki seemed to find it overwhelming. (Though Sandy, of course, thought it was a hoot.)
“Yes…” Kallie cackled. “Fall, Ceannis, fall!”
“We still have Tamapoa!” Kiki said, but her siblings said nothing. Tamapoa hadn’t won in ages, not since Mari Te Hapuku had blown the house down with a stripped-down performance of “I Will Die for Love of You,” unaccompanied until every Tamaputian in the audience (and half the rest) joined in with her. Tamapoa had tried to recapture that lightning in a bottle for years, with no success.
After Ceannis, Getsun’s performance was comparatively subtle and understated, just two performers and a flaming piano.
Sønheim was all gold sparkles and violin, very autumnal. (“Can you blame them? I’d dream of proper seasons too,” Atarangi said.) It was pretty and technically well-done, but for some reason didn’t grab any of the sisters. (“I always hate it when that happens,” Kallie sighed. “It’s not your fault, guys, you did a great job!”)
The Islands, for once, seemed to be the ones trying to pull a Mari Te Hapuku. But, once again, it couldn’t compare with the original. “It’s like the singer doesn’t have enough air in her lungs or something,” Atarangi complained. “Her voice is so thin! You have to really belt it out if it’s just you!”
“Yeah, that’s disappointing.” Kallie looked deflated herself.
And then… Tamapoa.
Giant crystals with veins of blue and black erupted from the stage floor. Clouds of blue smoke roiled over the stage, and coming up through the waves, dressed all in black—
A throbbing bass line crashed down, and Sandy began flailing.
It was not a Mari knock-off. It was Goth symphonic metal and its title translated to “Slayer of Giants.” It was loud. It was aggressive.
It was great. And when Tamapoa won Kolpovision, the siblings shrieked and cried and hugged each other.
They were still talking about it the next day. They were so full of energy, they went to the Tamaputian park and walked laps around the periphery, with a headset on so nobody would look at them funny for talking to themselves.
“Finally, finally they did something different!” Kallie cried.
“And the way they did that huge papier-mache head! I never—” said Kiki.
Sandy did their best to act out the great beheading.
“And the mix of music influences, showing not only where we came from but where we’re going!” Atarangi effused.
They all sighed dreamily, remembering.
“So good,” Atarangi said.
They settled into companionable silence and walked for a bit, reliving the glory. It was a beautiful day at the park, and a lot of people were around. A group of elderly were doing calisthenics together; a few people were out training their puffballs and poodle moths. A gaggle of children were playing some variant of freeze tag. It was sunny and bright and everyone seemed cheerful. A couple of teenagers were even singing “Slayer of Giants.”
“This is nice,” Sandy said. “I like this.
The others let the words float. Then Kiki said,
“We don’t get to do this much lately, not since Atarangi started magical girling. We used to share time more equally; now we have to pretend and make excuses for her work. I hate that.”
Normally, Atarangi would’ve gotten defensive, but this time, her shoulders slumped. “I hate it too,” she admitted. “Magical girls have such a brand image to maintain… but we need the money.”
“I know.” Before Atarangi’s magical girl job, they’d lurched from position to position, trying to be out and failing, trying to find something they could all do only to find nothing any of them excelled at, scraping from paycheck to paycheck. It’d been frustrating and draining. At least now they were financially stable and Atarangi was doing something she found satisfying.
“I hate it three,” Kallie said. “Now the only real me time I get outside the apartment are my evenings out, and go figure, the one time I have some fun in ages, it’s one of your coworkers! Ugh! And you know that ‘identical twin sister’ line holds up like wet tissue, but I don’t want my life to become a yearly watching of Kolpovision and never leaving the house!”
“I know,” Atarangi said miserably. “I was put on the spot and lashed out. I’m sorry. I guess blaming you lets me pretend there’s a solution, you know? Because changing you is easier than changing everything.”
“It still feels awful, Atarangi. Don’t do that. I don’t go around telling you to quit magical girling!”
“No, you don’t. I’m sorry.”
They went quiet again, feeling the pace of their feet on the soil, the beat of their heart. Feeling together, for once, even if it was together in bittersweetness.
“At least we won Kolpovision,” Sandy said.
“Yeah!”
And they went back to discussing ‘Slayers of Giants.’”