Magnus Hammerstone was a guitar god.

Who would have thought that at 40 years old, he would be playing with the fastest up-and-coming metal band in the business? Dethklok was only three shows into their record contract, but already they were gaining fame and fortune at an alarming rate.

And Magnus, as Dethklok's lead guitarist, was riding high on it all. No one could beat him; no one was as good as him. Sure, the lanky Swedish kid playing rhythm had potential. But the point was, he wasn't as good, and Magnus wasn't about to give him the chance to try.

Dethklok was performing tonight in Oslo, Norway, a sold out show. How far they had come from playing nearly catatonic audiences at shitty metal festivals, when they counted themselves lucky to make 300 bucks in total? The crowd here was wild, they were fucking crazy for Dethklok. Magnus grinned to himself as he thought about what lay in wait after the show. Three hot blondes in the front row had already flashed their tits at him, and he was sure there were more just waiting in line.

The pain started as he went into the solo for Blood Puke. Just a little twinge in his left arm that he quickly shrugged off. Thirty seconds later, it was back, radiating out from the centre of his chest, down his arms and back, and Magnus realized with a sudden certain clarity that he was, in a word, fucked.

He dropped to his knees as the pain became excruciating, ripping his guitar off and clutching at his chest, as though that would do anything at all.

"What the fuck?" yelled Nathan as the music came to an abrupt halt. "Get up!"

Magnus staggered to his feet. "Medic," he ground out, before emptying his stomach of it's contents. Distantly he could hear Ofdenson calling for one of the many paramedic crews, and for a minute, he allowed a surge of hope to bloom that they would get there in time.

Then the world seemed to shift and once again he was back on his knees, staring up not at the stage lights but at a man dressed in armour with flowing white hair.

Magnus had never begged for anything in his life, but in that moment he knew the man was his doom, and he wept, because he knew he was going to die.

"The Metalocalypse is not for you," the man said, his voice piercing not only Magnus' ears, but his mind and body as well. His soul. The words made no sense, but as the world faded into nothingness, he found that it just didn't matter anymore.

* * *

Charles Foster Ofdenson sighed as the covered body of the former lead guitarist was wheeled offstage. Dethklok's fourth concert had not gone the way he'd wanted it to, despite Nathan's enthusiastic shouting that having your lead guitarist drop dead on stage of a heart attack was like, totally metal.

Then there was the problem of replacing him. Skwisgaar could play lead, that was not a problem. The kid was born to play guitar; he had more talent in his pinky finger than Magnus had ever had. But where would they find a rythm guitar on such short notice? Dethklok's next concert was barely a week away, and they couldn't afford to cancel.

Ofdensen shook his head. Things would work themselves out. They always did. Things just had a...way...of working themselves out where Dethklok was concerned.

But he couldn't shake the look on Magnus' face as he died out of his mind. The guitarist had seen...something...in his final moments, that was certain. And while it would be easy to put it down to the fevered imaginings of a dying man's brain beginning to shut down, somehow he knew that just wasn't it.

"Sir?" The rough voice of a burly security gaurd interrupted his musings. "We caught this kid sneaking around the bus."

Ofdensen turned. Two guards stood there, a kid who could be no older than eighteen held between them. The kid was dirty, skinny and looked exhausted, like he'd neither slept nor eaten in several days. He had nothing, save for a small backpack and, of all things, a guitar case.

I'll be goddamned, Ofdenson thought. Dethklok's uncanny good luck struck again.

"Don't hurts me," the kid whimpered. "I nots hurting nothing! Just wanteds to see..."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Toki. Toki Wartooth."

"I see." He paused before asking the next question. It seemed a ridiculous thing to ask of what was clearly a street kid. But this was not a coincidence, Ofdenson was sure of it. He indicated the guitar case slung across Toki's back. "Can you play?"

Toki shrugged shyly. "Ja, a littles," he said uncertainly.

"Skwisgaar," Ofdenson called out to the passing guitarist. "Come here for a moment, would you?"

"Ja?"

"This is Toki Wartooth. He's going to audition as our new rhythm guitarist."

"Hims?" Skwisgaar asked incredulously, then laughed. "Where you finds hims? Garbage can?"

Ofdenson shrugged. "Just give him a chance, Skwisgaar."

"Ja, okays," Skwisgaar sighed graciously. Truth be told, Ofdenson was not particularly surprised at his reaction. Magnus had not been well liked among the band, and the fact that Skwisgaar had been gunning for lead guitar since he joined was no secret.

Toki, meanwhile, had unpacked his guitar, a worn Gibson Flying-V. The unasked question hung in the air: where did a homeless kid get such a valuable instrument? Neverthless, neither said a word as he plugged it into a nearby amp, and began to play.

He wasn't perfect: his technique was sloppy and clearly self-taught. But he was fast, and he was competent. Ofdenson didn't often give in to hunches, but somehow, he just knew this kid could learn. He looked to Skwisgaar.

"He ams dildoes," the other man spat. "He ams sloppies and slows!"

"But can you teach him what he needs to know?" Ofdenson inquired.

Skwisgaar thought, then sighed and nodded. "Ja. We needs rhythm guitars. I cans teaches him."

"Good. Thank you." Ofdenson watched him go, then turned back to Toki. "Welcome to Dethklok, Toki. I hope you're a fast learner. Now go to the tour bus, and for God's sake, get a shower."

Neither one noticed a tall man with flowing gray hair silently observing the scene, turn and walk away into the night until he was nothing more than a shadow.