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It started with a cassette.
James sat on the torn couch in Lars's cluttered apartment, turning the small plastic case over in his hands like it was a holy relic. On the spine, in hand-written Sharpie, were the words:
Metal Massacre I
Track 9 – Metallica – Hit the Lights
Ron leaned forward. "You sure that's us?"
"Only one way to find out," Lars said, grinning as he slid the tape into the boom box. "Shut up and listen."
A soft hiss, the click of a magnetic reel, then—
"No life 'til leather!"
The garage-born recording blared out of cheap speakers like it was tearing through space and time. It sounded rough. Hell, it was almost muddy. But it was them.
James's voice snarled like a wolf off its chain. Dave's solo came screaming through the noise, pure chaos on tape. Lars's drums crashed behind it, half a beat too wild in places. Ron's bass held steady in the back — buried, but grounding the whole damn thing.
They all sat in stunned silence.
Then James cracked a crooked smile. "We sound like a bar fight."
Dave barked a laugh. "A bar fight with guitars and bad wiring."
Lars leaned forward, wide-eyed. "This is it, man. This is how it starts."
Ron folded his arms. "You really think people'll care about one track?"
"I don't need people," Lars said. "I need the right people. The maniacs. The ones who live off this sound."
James ran a hand through his hair. In another life, he already knew where this road led — stadiums, albums, pain, death. But here, now, it was just beginning. The rawness, the uncertainty, the hunger — it was realer than anything he'd ever felt.
That night, they celebrated with cheap beer and a bag of stale chips. Four guys with a track on a mixtape, dreaming bigger than their rent checks could allow.
---
A week later, James and Lars drove up to San Francisco for a small underground gig — mostly just a favor for a guy Lars knew through tape trading. Nothing big.
But that's where James saw him.
On a small stage at the back of a bar that reeked of sweat and old cigarettes, stood a lanky figure with wild, uncombed hair, headbanging like he was alone in the world. His bass — a red Aria Pro II — was singing in ways James had never heard. He wasn't just playing; he was bending reality.
Lars whispered over the noise, "That's Cliff Burton. He plays for Trauma."
"That's a bass?" James asked, stunned.
He watched Cliff launch into a solo that sounded like a psychedelic apocalypse. His fingers were a blur. No pick. Just hands, grit, and soul. The crowd didn't cheer — they stared, overwhelmed.
After the set, James cornered him outside.
"You Cliff?"
"Yeah."
"I'm James. You just melted my brain."
Cliff gave a sheepish shrug. "Thanks, man. It's just music."
"Just music?" James laughed. "You turned that thing into a nuclear weapon."
Cliff smirked. "You guys play?"
James nodded. "We just got a song on Metal Massacre. Hit the Lights. Name's Metallica."
Cliff raised an eyebrow. "That was you guys?"
James's heart jumped. "You heard it?"
"Hard not to. It's floating around all the tape traders. Real raw. You guys sound like you're ready to punch the world in the face."
"That's about right."
Cliff looked thoughtful. "I liked it. Had some fire."
Lars stumbled out behind them, holding two sodas. "James! He any good?"
James gestured. "He's a goddamn monster, Lars."
Cliff laughed. "I'm not leaving Trauma, if that's what this is."
James raised his hands. "Hey, hey — no pitch. Just respect."
But the seed was planted. Even Cliff knew it.
As they said goodbye, James shook his hand and looked him in the eye. "If things ever change... look us up."
Cliff gave a half-smile. "You'll be the first to know."
---
Back in LA, the phone started ringing.
Tape traders. Fanzines. Local kids who didn't even own record players were coming to shows, shouting Metallica! before they even played a note.
They weren't big — not yet — but they were loud, and in the world of metal, that counted.
James looked out at the handful of heads in every dive bar, every garage set. He saw something sparking — not fame, not money — just the beginning of a movement.
Something heavier was coming.
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