As Amata left, he quickly looked around for the things he needed. He had no time to pack, obviously, so he couldn't take much. Tuning out the blaring alarms, his eyes settled on his baseball bat. 'That'll do'. He scooped it up and scrambled out the door of his room.

Upon exiting, he saw that there was indeed a radroach infestation as Amata said, for not twenty feet out his door was a vault security officer swinging at three of the vermin with his baton. In a few quick strides, he was within range, giving a running kick to one of the creatures, making it fly into the vault wall and shatter its exoskeleton, then turning the momentum of the motion into a crashing blow of his bat onto the head of the second roach, killing it with a satisfying crunch. The officer quickly dispatched the third. He was about to greet the man, but then he turned on him in a rage.

"You! This was all you and your father's fault!"

Barely recognizing the enraged man as Officer Kendall, the younger man had no time to do anything but duck the police baton swinging at him. He then shoulder checked the off-balance security officer, knocking him back and giving him space to swing the bat. He brings it crashing down on the hand holding the baton, forcing Kendall to drop.

Stepping back, he tried to defuse the situation. "Officer Kendall! What are you -"

He was cut off by Kendall's mad roar as the man charged at him, swinging his unbroken hand. The man who would become the Lone Wanderer wasted no more time, delivering a harsh blow to Kendall's skull, knocking off the man's helmet. When Kendall did not stop fighting, he hit him again, then three more times before stepping over the now prone man, scooping up his helmet for extra protection, and continuing down the hall.

After a few strides, he stopped, and tilted his head slightly to the side in curiosity. Turning, he gazed back at the older man- the body- that lay upon the floor. He walked back, slowly, and stood above it, staring.

Officer Kendall would clearly not be getting up. Multiple teeth had popped out and were scattered around the floor, and his nose was crooked. Blood dripped out of his mouth and nostrils. The upper right half of his skull was concave, either forcing the right eye shut or outright squishing it, leaving only the now glassy left eye to stare blankly up at him. Looking at the fresh corpse, the young man felt... nothing, really.

He'd killed Officer Kendall, a man he'd known practically all of his life. His oldest daughter was his age, and was one of the prettier girls in the vault. He patrolled the areas around the doctor's office and the school regularly. He'd known Officer Kendall. Even if he hadn't, he just killed a man. He should feel... something. According to every thing he'd ever read and every entertainment tape he'd ever seen, a person's first kill was supposed to be traumatic, temporarily paralyzing or causing panic attacks, no matter who was killed or what the circumstances were. It was a reaction that everyone felt when the realization that they had just ended a life hit them. The fact that he was feeling none of those emotions, no horror, no disgust, no nothing, proved to him, once and for all, a theory he'd had for a while now.

He, the soon-to-be Lone Wanderer, was a sociopath.

He knew and generally followed good moral behavior, but only because he'd been raised well. He'd known, but never felt those morals, never had a bad feeling from causing pain to others like a "conscience" is supposed to give.

For a brief instant, the realization opened up an entirely new path for him. He could follow those rules he'd been taught, but did he have too? The things that kept many from doing wrong, the conscience and moral dilemmas, simply weren't there for him. He wouldn't feel bad for killing or stealing or raping or anything really, so why shouldn't he?

Then the rest of his brain caught up with him, and he remembered everything he'd learned about morality in his young life. He didn't have to be an immoral person either. During his research into the subject, he'd discovered that before the war, there had been a middle-aged psychiatrist that diagnosed himself with sociopathy, who had decided it wouldn't change who he was. The psychiatrist had written a book on raising sociopaths into productive members of society. He also remembered concepts like the Golden Rule and Social Contract theory, which indicated that he'd be better off in the long run if he played by the rules.

Realizing he needed to be moving, he left the body behind, figuring that he could cross (or burn) the many bridges of morality when he came to them.

Still... he was a sociopath.

Good to know.