A couple of quick notes:
This story is loosely based off of Zorro and DC. It's about the struggle of one man who make justice his life's work, and works outside of the law in order to enforce it. The story starts the year this one man, Lysander Emerson, takes on a partner. For all time-line issues and purposes, this is Year One of the very large story arc I'm writing. If you have any questions about where the story is going or why I made the decisions I did, drop me a comment and I'll shoot you back a reply. I've been working on this story for a semester, and I'm pretty nervous about posting it, so . . . feedback is appreciated.

A few warnings, while I'm at it:
I chose the "M" rating for a reason. In this year and in those to follow, there will be violence, cursing, drug use, prostitution, sex, and both homosexual and heterosexual relationships. If any of these things don't sound quite like your cup of tea, you might want to hit the 'back' button. I promise that very few of the aforementioned things are gratuitous, if that helps your decision-making-process any.

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And Justice For All: Year One
Chapter One

Lysander Emerson – academic, genius, and corporate billionaire – stepped out of the town car as soon as it stopped moving. Both of his feet were on the pavement before the ignition had been turned off, and he was standing outside in the brisk winter breeze, staring up at the imposing building before him even before the driver was able to extract herself from the car.

"Should I come with you today, Lysander?" Edna asked. Lysander turned to regard the older woman, both of them knowing the answer without words having to be exchanged.

"I'll go myself this time, Edna," he answered. The older woman smiled sadly.

"If you say so. I was going to pick up some breakfast at the café around the corner. Do you want your usual?"

"Yes, thank you," he murmured before turning and ascending the stone steps leading to the building in front of him.

Lysander was admitted into the building after being identified, brought quickly through the waiting room and into a separate, small office. He waited for a few minutes, sitting in a plush leather chair, before a thin man in grey entered the room.

"Mr. Emerson," the man intoned, having expected a visit from the billionaire at some point that day.

"Good morning," Lysander answered.

"Your mother isn't doing well, today," the man in grey responded, getting straight to the point. "I know that you will never agree with me, but I think it might be best if you were to come back later today."

"No. She needs me here," Lysander responded in a cool, even voice.

"I don't think you understand, sir. She has been throwing tantrums all morning; it's been nearly impossible to restrain her."

"I do understand. It's something I remember well. Now, if you will?"

"As you wish," sighed the man, standing and ushering Lysander through a door near his desk, into a long corridor. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke again. "There will be guards to restrain her, if she gets too out of hand."

"Thank you," murmured Lysander as the man took out a massive key ring before they stopped in front of one of the nondescript doors which lined the hallway.

As soon as the door opened, Lysander realized that the man hadn't been exaggerating. This was most definitely what those in the profession called a ‘bad day'; he could hear the incoherent shouts and cries from the back of the room as clearly as if his mother had been standing beside him.

"Mom?" he called out, stepping inside the room as the door shut behind him. He sensed someone approaching at his right, and turned his head slightly. One of the guards.

"She's in a bit of a bad way today, Mr. Emerson. She's in the bathroom, if you want to see her. We've been trying to drag her out for hours, but it's not working."

"What is she doing in there?" Lysander asked, striding through the room towards the bathroom in the back.

"She's been washing her hands since almost the crack of dawn this morning. The water she's using is really hot, but every time we try to change the temperature or pull her hands out, she lashes out at us. The psychologist said something about guilt or atonement or whatever, but I'm not so sure what he meant. Maybe you can help us, sir."

"It's an action typical to obsessive-compulsive behavior. She’s on psychotropic medication, but there’s only so much the pills can do, given the state that she is in," Lysander answered automatically. The two guards exchanged a look; apparently, even when visiting his ailing mother, the man couldn’t remove himself from the realm or academia.

It was then that he rounded the corner and saw his mother, wild-eyed and haggard, furiously scrubbing hands that had already been rubbed raw under the hot water tap. He pushed away the stab of pain he felt at the sight, instead moving to stand next to his mother.

"Mom?" he asked. She didn't turn to acknowledge him, continuing to wash her hands. "Mom, what are you doing?" A series of mumbles and incoherent grunts followed his inquiry before finally, the low gibberish that she had been chanting raised in volume and became more articulate.

"Wash the blood off, hands so red, so red, so much blood, it's everywhere, oh God, have to get it off, can't look, so red, so much blood, he's bleeding, why is he bleeding? How? How? Why now?" Lysander shut his eyes against the tears that threatened.

"It was never your fault," he whispered, putting a hand on her shoulder. She yanked her hands out from underneath the stream of hot water for the first time that day, instead wrapping them around the lapels of the expensive suit her son was dressed in. Suddenly, his mother was hysterical, twisting and convulsing and shouting, all while trying to push him backwards or pull him down to the floor. The guards, though ready to pounce, didn't move. They had seen Lysander Emerson with his mother before, and knew he was in no danger now.

"Do something!" she shrieked, staring into his eyes but not seeing him at all. "Do something! Anything you want, have it, take it, bring him back!"

That was when the screams started, the agonizing, heart-wrenching wails of grief. He put his arms around his mother, pinning both of hers to her sides as she threw her head back and howled, trying to give her comfort in the only way possible. Though he had an audience, Lysander knew it would be nearly impossible not to cry, not to let the emotions get the better of him. His eyes watered. He would allow himself nothing more. He couldn't do this anymore; he used to visit his mother every weekend, back before it got so bad, back before her so-called ‘survivor's guilt' literally drove her insane.

The tears welled in his eyes as he rocked and tried to comfort his mother, whose screams died down slowly as he held her. From the choked noises and muffled sobs emerged a pattern of words, which eventually wove itself into an off-kilter melody Lysander recognized as a lullaby she used to sing him when he was a little boy, back before his father's death.

Lysander had been twelve years old when his mother was kidnapped, taken from the street in broad daylight. He had been brought home from school immediately by Edna, who took him deep within the Emerson Estate, carefully hiding them where no one would find, should there be an attack on the Estate itself. Charles Emerson had already left with the police to go to the location the kidnappers had specified in one of their phone calls. Emerson saw his wife one last time before he was shot, murdered by a disgruntled employee with a violent past. She was shot immediately after him, and watched as the murderer turned the gun on himself. Grace Emerson survived, her guilt for luring her husband to his death eating away at her until the only place left in Portston that could guarantee her safety was Leonard-Bleucher Psychiatric Hospital.

When it became clear that his mother's condition would not improve, Lysander withdrew, ducking the flailing fist that struck out towards his face. Two of the guards, upon seeing her assault, stepped forward to catch her by both arms, steadying her as she thrashed about, still screaming. Lysander pressed at the corners of his eyes with his fingers, drawing away the wetness that had swelled there. He would be calm when he stepped out into the hallway, and collected by the time he reached the town car. A day at the office still lay ahead, and he fully intended to put it to use.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Lysander said softly, nodding at each in turn. "I – it would seem as though my presence is only worsening her condition."

"Mr. Emerson, if you want to stay with her, we can always–"

"No, I would never have her restrained just to earn some peace of mind. I apologize if my visit has made the morning more difficult than you had originally anticipated. Good day."

With that, Lysander turned on his heel and walked out of the room, continuing through the narrow, winding corridors he knew by heart until reaching the public waiting room. He steadfastly ignored the stares he drew from any and all in the room, pretended he couldn't easily hear every whispered conversation occurring throughout the room. He was among Portston’s wealthiest citizens, and everyone knew why he spent January twenty-second in Leonard-Bleucher. It was, after all, the anniversary of the death of Charles Emerson, actor and entrepreneur.

Lysander met Edna at the town car. Edna was neatly unwrapping a bagel with one hand and sipping tea from a styrofoam cup with the other. As she noticed her young friend approaching, she set both food and drink down atop the town car. The drawn look on Lysander's face told her all she needed to know.

"I miss her as well," she said softly, a faint southern accent flavoring her words. Lysander ducked his head. Edna was familiar with this gesture; the man always did everything he could, consciously or not, to hide his emotions from others.

"I never thought I actually missed her until today, Edna. She's always been here, even if she was a little different. Today she didn't even recognize me, and I doubt she ever will again. She's not my mother anymore. Her identity was stripped from her thirteen years ago," he responded, absently taking the coffee and buttered roll his housekeeper handed him.

"It must have been painful for you to see her in such a state. Maybe next time, I might go in with you," Edna offered. She began to eat again, seeing that her young master was far from ready to continue on to the office just yet.

"That won't be necessary. I know why you haven't visited her since she was committed, and I can't blame you for that. It's too much to see, sometimes. You are right in your actions, but I just can't stay away." Lysander rolled the cup of coffee between his hands.

Edna had known Lysander long enough to understand that no words were necessary at such a time – in fact, they both preferred quiet on mornings like these. Pushing Lysander to speak more deeply about his ‘feelings' would result in certain failure, and the subject of the young man's parents was one that Edna knew never to push upon him. Though he knew it might help Lysander just to talk, to vent some of the anger, guilt, and grief that so burdened the young man's heart, she was still as yet somewhat unprepared to have such a discussion. She had, after all, loved Charles and Grace Emerson nearly as well as Lysander had. Theirs was a presence that could never truly be forgotten.