Prologue

Aang had always felt like an outcast. Music was always a big influence on him but, he was part of a dying breed-

He was a metalhead.

Influenced by the fast, heavy and hard hitting bands of decades past, Aang wanted nothing more than to be just like his heroes. He had a goal, and seemingly no way to get there. He felt hopeless at the tender age of 12.

He was on his way home from day school that Wednesday, passing the same pawn shop on the bus as he did every other day of the week, when in the window, something peculiar caught his eye.

He got off the bus at the next stop and walked to the shop. He went inside and laid his eyes on the beat up old acoustic hanging on the wall.

"Excuse me, mind if I try that" he asked, pointing to the guitar.

He was handed the guitar, ignoring the fact that the strings haven't been changed in years and that it was missing a string. He began playing sporadically, as if nobody was around him. For a moment, he was on top of the world.

The clerk snatched the guitar back from him and hung it back up.

"You sound like shit kid, ya might wanna find a new hobby" the clerk said coarsely.

Aang walked out of the shop quietly. 'My birthday-' he thought. It was only a few days away. He sprinted home, practically breaking the door in his haste.

"I WANT A GUITAR FOR MY BIRTHDAY!" he yelled, the adrenaline still fresh from getting to play.

"What, you want to be like those stupid bands you're always going on about?" his six year old brother, Bodhi, laughed at him.

"No- I'm gonna be the best" Aang retorted with arrogant confidence.

Their mother walked in to stop the commotion.

"Bodhi, stop teasing your brother". She turned to Aang. "A guitar you say?" Aang nodded frantically, she smiled. "Alright then, Gyatso". Aang laughed at the quip, then hugged her.

She went back into the kitchen to tend to her now crying daughter. Aang went back to his room and put on a CD of his favorite band, The Nomads, and lay on his bed, staring at the poster he had of them on his wall. His idol, Gyatso, was the lead guitarist of The Nomads, and Aang wanted to be just like him, playing the intricate solo's and heavy riffs.

The next 3 days were a blur.

Finally, Saturday came. It was his 13th birthday. Since moving to the city after his father died, Aang didn't have many friends. His family didn' live nearby, so he celebrated with his mother and 2 siblings.

His mother and his brother sang him 'Happy Birthday', while his sister, Nylah, sat in her high chair clapping. They ate the pies his mother made, which she said were an old family recipe passed down to from generation to generation.

Then finally; presents.

There were 2 boxes and a bag. He first opened the bag. Inside were 2 vinyl copies of albums by The Nomads, which were from his siblings. Next he opened the smaller box. Inside was a new record player that his relatives sent him. Lastly lay the bigger box. It was oddly shaped, but he was ready to open it.

He ripped away the colorful paper. Then he peeled the tape that held the box shut. The anticipation was killing him. Finally, he opened the lid. His jaw dropped at the sight of it.

Inside the box was the acoustic he played at the shop, 3 packs of new strings and scale books. He went around the room hugging everyone. Bodhi resisted, but gave in eventually.

He retreated to his room and scrounged around for a coin. He then sat down with the guitar and messed around for a bit before opening the books. He'd stay up late that night learning the basics, feeling the pain in his inexperienced fingers as they pressed upon the cold, stiff strings of the unforgiving axe.

After hours of practicing, he passed out with the guitar still in his arms. When he awoke, the first thing he did was restring the guitar and cleaned it off.

He knew that his journey had only just begun.