Chapter 13 – Baptism by Fire

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June 18, 1982 – The Stone, San Francisco

Metallica was back.

The last time they played here, Cliff Burton had been leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, measuring them in silence.

Now, he was tuning up onstage beside them — fingers gliding across the Rickenbacker's strings, calm and focused like he'd been born under those lights.

Lars adjusted his drum throne for the fifth time, his nervous energy barely contained. Dave was running through scales at breakneck speed, pretending to be casual but burning inside.

And James?

James was staring out at the growing crowd, gripping his Flying V a little tighter than usual.

It felt different tonight.

The first show with Cliff.

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They opened with Hit the Lights — and it wasn't even close to how it used to sound.

Cliff's bass snarled and screamed underneath the riffs, stretching the sonic floor. The wah pedal moaned during breaks. His hair whipped as he locked into Lars's drums like they were wired to the same voltage.

The crowd noticed.

No — they felt it.

Heads banged harder. Fists flew faster. And for the first time, people moved to the basslines.

Seek and Destroy followed, then Metal Militia. Every song hit harder than it ever had before. Cliff didn't play like a traditional bassist — he played like he was painting in blood under their music. Filling every empty space with danger and soul.

After No Remorse, someone in the front yelled, "Who the hell is the bass guy?!"

James smirked. "That's Cliff. He's not here to babysit the rhythm."

Laughter. Cheers. A few beer cans thrown skyward.

Lars counted them into a new song — Whiplash — still half-finished, raw and untested.

Didn't matter.

They burned through it like they'd been playing it for years.

Even Cliff, who'd only heard the riff the night before, adapted instantly. He was improvising fills on the fly — furious, melodic, unhinged.

When they finished, the crowd went ballistic. They weren't just moshing — they were converting.

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Backstage – After the Set

James slammed a water bottle down and let out a breath.

"That was... real."

Lars was grinning so hard it hurt. "Did you hear the pit during Whiplash?!"

Cliff was wiping down his strings with a towel. "It wasn't tight. But it was alive."

Dave tossed his guitar on the couch. "We got something now. Not just a band — a sound."

James looked around the cramped greenroom: sweat, noise, torn flyers on the walls.

For a moment, he saw it — the future. A blur of stages, long nights, maybe even records.

But most of all, he saw clarity.

Cliff had changed everything.

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Later That Night – Outside the Venue

Fans clustered around them as they loaded gear into the van.

Someone handed James a flyer and asked for a signature.

Another handed Cliff a cassette. "That bassline, man. You melted my f***ing spine."

Cliff chuckled. "Good. It needed adjusting."

Lars turned to James. "So... what now?"

James looked up at the streetlight. The beam buzzed over them, casting sharp shadows.

"We write," he said. "We play."

Dave added, "We conquer."

Cliff smirked. "And we destroy."

The four of them stood there for a moment — tired, wired, and grinning like maniacs.

Metallica was no longer just some garage band from Downey.

Now, it had claws.

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