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The garage was quieter than usual. Not silent — Dave was still noodling on his guitar — but the energy had shifted.
Last night had felt like ignition. Four guys in sync. No name, no future — just raw power.
But now they had a name.
Metallica.
It was more than a word now. It meant something. It was a commitment.
James sat on a folding chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees. His battered white Flying V rested against his boot. Lars paced back and forth, stick in hand, tapping it against his palm like a metronome with legs. Ron sipped a soda, half-zoned out. Dave had his guitar slung low, absentmindedly shredding a solo that had no business being this early in the day.
"Alright," Lars said, "so we've got a name. We've got a sound. But what the hell are we actually doing?"
James looked up. "You're the one always running your mouth, Lars. What do you think?"
"I think," Lars said, stopping in front of them, "we get on a record."
Ron choked on his soda. "A record?"
"Yeah. Compilation. There's this dude, Brian Slagel, putting together a thing called Metal Massacre. Underground LA bands. He's letting nobodies submit a song. We give him a track, and boom — people hear us."
Dave perked up. "You know the guy?"
"Sort of. I pestered him. He told me to send him something."
James rubbed his chin. "So… we need to record something."
"Yeah," Lars grinned. "You got a song, James. Hit the Lights. That's our opener."
Ron nodded slowly. "It's rough but it works."
Dave cracked his knuckles. "Let me put some leads over it. Spice it up."
James gave a short nod. "Just don't drown it out."
Dave raised an eyebrow. "Relax, man. We want it to sound big, right?"
James didn't answer right away. He grabbed his guitar, strummed a muted E chord, and said, "Big's fine. Just don't bury the song under solos."
Dave gave a half-smile. "Sure."
The tension was light, but it sat in the air like a coiled string.
---
They ran the song again.
James opened with a riff sharp as a chainsaw. Ron followed on the low end, keeping it tight. Lars smashed in like a war drum, and Dave's lead licks danced on top — quick, searing, almost too precise.
By the second run, they were sweating. Dave, satisfied, let his guitar hang as James stopped to wipe his brow.
"Can we do it live?" Lars asked.
"Eventually," James said. "But if we're recording, we need to make it clean."
Ron added, "I still don't know if my bass setup's ready for studio work."
"Doesn't matter," Lars said. "We'll figure it out. Slagel said he doesn't care about perfect quality — just attitude."
"Good," Dave said. "We've got plenty of that."
---
Later, while Lars made calls and Ron cleaned up gear, James sat on the driveway next to Dave.
Dave was rolling a cigarette, eyes scanning the sky like he was hunting a riff in the clouds.
"You write a lot of your own stuff?" James asked.
Dave nodded. "Tons. Stuff I didn't show you yet."
"What kind of stuff?"
Dave lit the cigarette. "Fast. Mean. Riff-heavy. Solos that punch you in the gut."
James smirked. "Sounds about right."
Dave looked over. "What about you?"
James thought for a second. "I write from the gut. Rhythm first. Let the words ride it."
Dave flicked ash off the edge of his boot. "Then we're gonna push each other."
James nodded slowly. "As long as we don't push each other off a cliff."
Dave grinned.
For a moment, it was calm.
Just two guys, two guitars, and the feeling of something about to catch fire.
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That night, James sat on his mattress on the floor in his brother's apartment. A draft blew through the open window. Posters of Sabbath, Diamond Head, and UFO hung slightly crooked on the wall. His guitar sat against the bed frame, silent but waiting.
In this life, the name Metallica was brand new. Hit the Lights hadn't even been put on tape yet. No crowds. No records. No bus rides. No betrayals. No world tours.
Just four kids with ambition and scars.
James looked down at his hands — rough, callused, ready — and whispered to himself:
"Don't screw this up."
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