Author's Note (8/14/17): Hey, this is a revised edition of my first real epic: Us Against the World. Spanning from pre-D1 all the way through D3, and with a bit of post-canon tacked on at the end, this novel spans from the years 1991 to 1997. I realize that doesn't sound like much, but these 6 years are hugely formative, especially for Adam Banks. Here, I tell the story of how I imagine Adam's transformation from Hawk to Duck. To do that, I will often quote from canon. Any text you see in bold font are lines from the movie trilogy and belong to Disney.

In addition to Adam's transformation, I'll also tell the story of Paul Larson. Perhaps readers of Breaking Up the Flock will better understand him. Speaking of BUTF, it is not necessary to read that story in order to understand this one. But if you're just dying of curiosity, don't let me stop you.

Anyway, enjoy the show!

-Matt

Chapter One: The Kindest Thing to Do

"Steady, girl," Bill Larson called out to Robin, the family's loyal chocolate lab. He raised his Ruger and took aim at the elderly dog, who gave her owner an adoring grin. She had no idea what was coming.

9-year old Paul Larson trembled as the sound of the gunshot reverberated across the family farm north of Duluth. The sandy-haired boy witnessed the sad spectacle from a bay window in the main house in one final act of love for the sweet-natured dog. It was Labor Day Weekend of 1991, and Paul was up at the old family dairy farm with his parents as per holiday custom. This trip up north, however, was different from the others in one crucial aspect: Bill Larson had gone up with the intention of personally euthanizing his dog.

Paul knew that there was nothing he could have done to save Robin, or to make her young and healthy again. All he could do was see her off to Doggy Heaven, and that was what he did from inside the house. Feeling his knees begin to buckle, he sat down on the bay window bench as tears ran down his high, pale cheeks.

"It was the kindest thing to do, what yer old man did."

The boy's dark, watery eyes looked-up to discover Uncle Joe. The 36-year old dairy farmer stood at six-feet-five-inches, had pale Nordic blue eyes, and a thick head of chestnut hair that had begun to gray at the temples. True to Larson form, Joe's face was square, clean-shaven, and rather severe-looking.

"Once they start crappin' indoors, it's pretty much the end."

"I know."

Joe gave a sympathetic look to his heart-broken nephew. Even by Larson standards, Bill was a tough cookie. Joe did not understand why his brother could not be bothered to take the poor dog to a vet and have it put down properly.

Probably tryin' to save a couple bucks, cheap bastard.

"Would you like some milk?"

Paul nodded without saying a word.

Joe turned on his heel and made for the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to get away from the weaping child. Despite being one of the milder men in his family, Joe Larson was uncomfortable with emotional displays. He had no idea what to say or do in these situations, so he offered his nephew the one thing he had in abundance: rich, comforting milk, painstakingly farmed by Larson men for generations.

As Joe stepped into the massive country kitchen, he observed his parents and his wife, Tina chatting over coffee with his sister-in-law, Maria. The group had been talking about The Stand, Stephen King's best-seller that had been published earlier that year when Anders – or 'Andy' – the old Larson patriarch observed his eldest son enter.

"What's happenin', Joe?"

"Just gettin' some milk for Paul. He's very upset, Maria. You might wanna get on that."

Maria Larson rose from her seat with an annoyed grunt. The brunette dental hygienist looked much older than her 33 years. The purple bags beneath her brown eyes had given her a permanently tired look, as did the stress lines all across her face. Being married to Bill Larson took a visible toll on her, but she would never consider leaving her husband. The last thing she wanted was to risk having her son left alone with him.

"He saw Robin get put down, didn't he?"

Joe nodded as he poured milk from a glass pitcher.

"Unbelievable," Maria huffed. "Where's Paul?"

"Over in the family room."

"Thanks, Joe."

"Hey, hey, hey," he called out, extending a glass of milk. "Bring him this."

Maria gave an appreciative nod as she took the glass, then made her to her son. The house was large, and it remained home to three generations of the family, with small packs of Larsons off in different sections, each doing their own thing over the holiday weekend. Everyone had known what Bill's plans were, and had taken care to avoid being anywhere that overlooked the shooting. Everyone except Paul, who Maria discovered alone in the large, rustic living room complete with hardwood floors, sturdy, handmade wooden furniture, and a massive log-fed fire place. The calm, dead face of an impressive buck stared out at the living room from just above the mantle.

Maria reached for a box of tissues and approached her son.

"There you are, sweetie."

The gentle voice of his mother had the effect of calming the boy, but he did not look up as she took her seat next to him.

Looking at her son's shaggy, dirty blond hair, Maria smiled gently.

"We gotta get you to the barber's," she declared, brushing away a few long locks with her hand. "We can't keep that handsome face hidden."

Paul Larson was not an unpleasant looking child – but he had never really gone through a 'cute little boy' phase. He had always been tall for his age, and his reserved demeanor had a way of making him seem mature at best and icy at worst. But given his genes, he was all but certain to grow tall and strong, and his obsidian eyes were – if not exactly pretty – definitely magnetic.

Once his face was clear of hair, Maria set the milk down and got to work dabbing her son's teary brown eyes, cleaning his face with one hand while pulling him in and holding him with the other arm.

"Why did Daddy kill Robin?"

Maria felt a surge of anger at her husband for inflicting such a traumatic experience on their son, but managed to conceal it.

"Robin has been in a lot of pain for a long time," she explained. "Putting her down was the kindest thing to do."

Paul nodded at the familiar explanation that he had heard earlier from his uncle. But the boy could not shake the feeling that his father had actually enjoyed the experience. Bill had seemed a bit too excited about the prospect of putting his shiny new Ruger to use, and this more than anything else disturbed the boy.

"Here," Maria placed the milk in her son's hands. "Drink this."

Paul nodded, raised the glass to his wide lips, and made short work of the milk. All the tears had taken a lot out of him, and he had felt drained. The rich, creamy milk gave him a badly needed pick-me-up.

"Let me just get that," Maria offered, wiping her son's milk moustache off with a fresh tissue. "You're too young for a moustache."

Paul looked up at his mother, prompting her to give a smile that was warm, but well short of her eyes. Her eyes had a certain melancholy to them that other people had often asked about. But Maria batted away those probing questions. Those people had already known the answer, but they had tried in vain to get Maria to acknowledge it to herself. Now they had given up trying. Maria would have given up too were it not for Paul.

Mother and son sat together for nearly an hour when a heavy, familiar gait pounded across floor, and it causing them to jump slightly.

"He's not crying is he?" Bill Larson demanded.

In true Larson form, the powerfully-built 33-year old stood at six-five, had blue eyes, a square face, and a severe natural countenance. Like all Larson men, Bill's brown hair had been Viking blond as a child, but had darkened with age. Unlike the other Larson men, however, Bill was losing his hair and had already resorted to a comb-over that fooled no one. Now, the off-duty corrections officer wanted to see if his son had violated the code of manliness that managed to be at once vague and unequivocal.

"No, sir," Paul answered, the firmness of his voice surprising him.

"Good. Be a winner, not a whiner."

Bill's interrogative scowl softened into grave diligence before he continued.

"Robin's buried. If you wanna say goodbye, I can take you to her marker."

"Bill, it's too soon," Maria protested, drawing a look of death from her husband.

But 9-year old Paul was not about to give his father a reason to call him 'girly.' That simple epithet had stuck to the boy like napalm and burned just as badly. Having already watched the Old Man use their family dog for target practice, Paul was determined to hit his father the only way he knew how: by denying him his tears. The boy put on a determined face and stood up.

"I'm ready whenever you are, sir."

Bill nodded and gave his son an approving clap on the back that nearly knocked the boy forward.

I might just make a man outtta this wimp yet.

"Good. Come on."

Without breathing another word, Bill led his wife and son out to the front of the main house where a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle sat waiting. The off-duty corrections officer looked over to his wife.

"You follow along on the one in the loft," he indicated the large storage shed with his head.

Maria nodded and made her way to the loft.

Bill shoved a black helmet into his son's gut.

"Put this on."

Paul strapped on the adult-sized helmet while Bill sat down on the driver's seat without a helmet of his own. As soon as he heard the roar of the other ATV from behind him, Bill fired-up his vehicle and took off in the direction of the marker, prompting his son to grab him by the waist for security. The boy could feel the grip of the pistol holstered on his father's belt. He shuddered and nearly fell off the ATV as he recoiled from the gun, but he managed to recover his grip around his father's waist just in time. As the terrain became less even, Paul's head rattled inside the massive helmet, but it had the effect of making him dwell less on the holstered Ruger.

The trio eventually made it to the top of a small hill on the perimeter of the farm. The freshly-piled earth was adorned with a simple wooden cross.

"We better make this quick," Bill declared, observing the falling sun.

As they stood around the marker, Maria and Paul reverently bowed their heads. Bill remained perfectly upright. No one said a word, but Maria and Paul prayed to themselves. Bill's cold blue eyes closely studied his son's face. Should the boy have cried, his father would have noticed it straightaway. But Paul successfully held back the tears as he willed Robin to Doggy Heaven.

Philip Banks placed a check mark next to the item 'cleaned room' on his list of tasks for his son, Adam to complete in order to earn his weekly allowance. Adam's father was a no-nonsense lawyer and a stickler for rules, etiquette, and procedure. Standing at an even six feet, he was blue-eyed and trim, with a head of thinning brown hair. Despitethe holiday, he wore a white dress shirt – its open top button a gruding nod to informality – along with a pair of gray dress slacks, and brown loafers.

Philip's checklist included seven hours of studying game tape, four hours of skating drills, and three hours of scoring drills, along with keeping the bedroom clean, and writing a two-page book report on a different novel each week. With the beginning of the school year right around the corner, completion of homework would soon be added to the list. An incomplete on any one of these tasks meant no allowance for the week. Satisfactory completion of all tasks earned Adam $40 a week – a handsome sum for a 9-year old.

Philip lowered his clipboard and took one last look at the bedroom of his middle son. An elaborate roll top desk dominated the wall facing a twin bed adorned with a hunter green Minnesota North Stars comforter. A modest 24-inch TV along with a VCR was tucked into the corner next to the desk, with all of Adam's hockey games neatly stored and labeled inside the stand. Hockey trophies and Pinewood Derby cars covered the top of the boy's dresser, and hockey posters littered the walls. A large poster of Mike Modano, the third-year center for the North Stars hung over the headboard.

The Banks patriarch gave his son a short nod, then reached into his wallet and pulled out two twenty dollar bills.

"Well done."

"Thanks, Dad."

The 9-year old gratefully took the cash, but the simple words 'well done' meant far more to him than the money. With his sandy hair, sapphire eyes, diligent habits, and eagerness to make his parents proud, Adam Banks was the hard-working boy next door that parents dreamed of having as their own. But his determination on the ice masked a deep and gnawing sense of insecurity. He was the most dominant player on the perennial champion Hawks, but Adam never quite had the sense that he was living up to the lofty of expectations of his parents, or Coach Reilly, or even his admiring teammates. This drove him to constantly push the limits of his capabilities.

For a boy like that, the words 'well done' from a demanding father was like praise from Caesar.

With the inspection having been completed, Philip turned to make his way to his home office to file away the week's checklist, but halted when Adam spoke up.

"Excuse me, Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Can I invite Jake over now?"

Philip nodded.

"Go ahead, you earned it," he said with a wafer-thin smile before heading into his den.

Adam beamed at the prospect of hanging out with his best friend, Jake McGill, and hurried over to the phone on his desk to place the call. He was close to all of his teammates, but Adam, who played center, was particularly close to his wingman Jake McGill. Jake was the bigger kid, and was a bully in the eyes of many; but to Adam, he was a loyal and fun-loving friend with a wicked sense of humor.

Paul Larson, a Hawk defenseman, was also a good friend of Adam's. But the defenseman was more quiet and detached than McGill, which made for less exciting company. And in any event, Adam knew that Paul was up north visiting extended family and would be unable to come over.

Having dialed the number that he knew by heart, Adam waited for several rings before a slurred, raspy voice answered.

"Uhhh, hello?"

"Hey, Mr. McGill – it's Adam. Can Jake come over to my house, please?"

Jim McGill, who was eight martinis deep during his holiday weekend, sat up in his La-Z-Boy recliner and tried to focus.

"Y-y-you said yer name's Ad...mrw...?" He hiccuped.

"Adam, yes."

"JAAAAAAAKE!"

Adam winced on the other end as Jim McGill bellowed his son's name, not bothering to cover his phone's mouthpiece. The earnest center had no idea why his friend's father had always sounded so weird on the phone, but Mrs. McGill hardly sounded any better whenever it was her turn to answer the phone.

Adam heard the rumble of excited footsteps on the other end before Jim lazily informed his son that someone named 'Andrew' was on the line.

"Hello….Adam?"

The center laughed.

"No, it's Andrew. Didn't you hear?"

Jake laughed to hide his embarassment. He hated it when his parents answered the phone, especially when they were drunk. But he went along with Adam's pretense – it was better to laugh that sort of thing off than it was to cry about it.

"Sorry, Andrew. My mistake. What's up?" Please invite me over, please invite me over.

"I passed inspection," Adam proudly announced. "So you can come over if you want."

"I'm there!" Jake's silver-blue eyes lit up in excitement.

"Cool, see you soon."

Jake took the cordless phone and set it back on the wall charger in the kitchen. He felt an invisible weight lift when Adam invited him over. Charlotte and Philip Banks might not have been the most effervescent adults in the world, but they were an absolute joy compared to Jake's own parents who were either drunk, nursing hangovers, or working. The Banks Residence had always been a safe-haven for Jake McGill, and any invitation to the place at any time was always welcome to the tall wing.

"JAAAAAAKE!"

Great. What does he want now?

"HIT ME!"

Jake looked from the kitchen through the archway into the living room where he could see his father's outstretched martini glass. He sighed and grabbed the nearly-empty bottle of gin on the counter, then approached his father who smelled like he had been rolling around in a puddle of gasoline.

"Say when," Jake instructed as he began pouring.

"Huh?"

"Say when."

"Huh?"

"When."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

The gin went nearly to the brim of the glass when the bottle emptied. No room for vermouth, but Jim was at the point where cocktail niceties were redundant. Jake set the bottle down next to the recliner.

"I'm going over to Adam's, Dad."

"Huh?"

"Adam's! I'm going over to see Adam."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

Without wasting another word on his father, the boy grabbed his rollerblades and made for the front door. After strapping up, the young forward set off for his best friend's house. Jake was quite tall for his nine years, but Coach Reilly kept the boy on the wing rather than move him to defense because of his surprising speed. Like Adam and Paul, Jake had sandy-colored hair, which along with their on-ice dominance had earned the group the 'Golden Trio' moniker.

But they were more than three blond-haired boys. They were Hawks to the core, and they played each game like it was a fight to the death. The locker room bond that they shared between themselves and the other Boys in Black was like men going to war together. But as tight-knit as the whole team was, Jake's friendships with Adam Banks and Paul Larson stood above the rest, and Jake clung to those two as rare sources of warmth and loyalty.

He had a sixteen-year old sister named Melanie, a pretty blonde. But the seven year age gap precluded any real bond between brother and sister. Besides, she was out of the house at every opportunity, usually with a guy.

After several minutes of skating, Jake arrived at the sprawling Banks Residence. He glided up the long driveway and made his way to the front door, being greeted by Adam's friendly smile about a minute after ringing the bell.

"Hey, Mo," Jake greeted his friend with a hug that surprised Adam, but was returned readily enough.

'Mo' was Jake's nickname for Adam. It was also the nickname of Adam's hero, Mike Modano, whose jersey number 9 the center shared.

"Good to see you, Jake," Adam replied, releasing his friend from the embrace before walking onto the front porch and closing the door behind him.

Jake sat down on a nearby patio chair to remove his rollerblades.

"Your dad is some character," Adam chuckled. "He thinks my name is Andrew."

Jake laughed uncomfortably.

"Uh, yeah, he's something. But who cares? Who needs dads, anyway? It's us against the world, right?"

"Us against the world," Adam agreed with a solemn nod.