Chapter 18 – Smoldering Fuse

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September 1982 – San Francisco

James didn't have writer's block. Not even close.

The riffs were already in his head—etched there, from a life he'd already lived. As Michael, he had played every Metallica song a thousand times. He didn't need to write them. He just needed to remember when to reveal them.

But it couldn't happen all at once. Dropping Master of Puppets into the current lineup would feel like landing a spaceship in a garage band jam session. These guys were good, but not ready.

So James sat in the corner of the practice room, pretending to mess around with chord changes while Lars tinkered with his drum mics and Dave argued with himself about pedal settings. Cliff just watched, quiet but observant as ever.

They launched into The Mechanix again—Mustaine's baby. Fast, relentless, razor-sharp. But James played a little more reserved this time. He didn't want to outshine yet. Not yet.

"Let's take five," Lars finally said, exhaling and wiping his face with a sweat-drenched towel.

Dave chugged a beer and dropped onto the battered couch, muttering something about needing to "keep the fangs out."

Cliff walked over and crouched beside James. "You've been holding out."

James glanced up. "How so?"

Cliff grinned slightly. "Those licks you play between songs? They're not just random. That's structure. That's storytelling."

James shrugged, setting his pick down. "Maybe I'm just testing waters."

"Or maybe you're waiting for the right ears," Cliff said, eyes narrowing just a little. "And I get it. I really do. But you don't have to hide it from me."

James smirked. "Fair enough."

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Later That Night – Cliff's Apartment

The apartment was dimly lit, the air thick with incense and music. Mercyful Fate's Nuns Have No Fun spun on the turntable. Cliff sat cross-legged on the floor, bass in hand. James slouched on the couch, gently strumming a clean, mournful melody.

He let the notes fall one by one—simple, haunting. A shadow of a song not yet born.

Cliff listened, unmoving, absorbing every measure.

"What's that?" he finally asked.

James looked at the ceiling. "Something I've been hearing in my head. No title yet."

"It's beautiful. Heavy in a way most bands don't touch."

"It's not always about speed," James said. "Sometimes, it's about the fall."

Cliff nodded. "When you're ready to build that into something, I want in."

James met his gaze. "You will be. Promise."

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The Next Rehearsal – Subtle Power Moves

The next afternoon, James showed up early. He already had his rig warmed up, and he was playing a slow, swaggering riff with weight behind every note.

Dave walked in mid-riff, beer already in hand. "What's that? Sounds familiar."

James shrugged. "Just something I've been messing with. Thought we'd try building on it."

It was Jump in the Fire, but a version molded by future instincts—structured tighter, meaner, groovier. He remembered how the original version had been Dave's idea, but now James was gently steering it into what it needed to become.

Lars loved it right away, nodding along from the kit. Cliff found the groove instantly, layering in a pulsing low end that gave the riff real bite.

Dave stood, arms folded, head cocked to the side. "You slowed it down."

"Made it heavier," James replied.

Dave didn't argue—just picked up his guitar and joined in, reluctantly at first, then fully.

By the end of the session, Lars jumped up from the kit. "That one's going on the next tape."

Cliff gave James a look. Not of suspicion—of recognition.

He knew.

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Later That Night – James' Room

Alone now, James picked up a notebook—not to write lyrics, but to plan.

There were dozens of songs waiting inside him. He couldn't unleash them all yet. Cliff was ready. Lars would follow. But Dave... Dave was a storm, and one wrong move could blow everything apart too early.

So he made a mental list.

Phase One: Raw Speed.

Let Dave feel like the king of the moment.

Phase Two: Shift the Sound.

Bring in complexity through Cliff. Gradually bend the band's tone toward something bigger.

Phase Three: New Dawn.

When the time came—when things exploded—he'd be ready to lead them into true darkness... and true glory.

He closed the notebook and leaned back on his bed, a half-smile on his lips.

The fuse was lit.

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