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To be honest, Zet doesn’t really know where they are.
One minute they’re trying to navigate a more direct route from Hidden Valley to Trading Post 188. The next, they stumble straight into a nightmare. Sure, they’ll admit it wasn’t the best idea to stray from the roads, but if they can make it through Quarry Junction without being torn to shreds then surely they can make it through anything else the wasteland has to offer!
Well, that’s what they thought, anyways.
The ground around the crater is blackened and glassy with the impact of a long gone nuclear blast, the air still thick with radiation that sends the geiger counter on Zet’s Pimp-Boy 3 Billion into a frenzy. Not great, but also not enough to really scare them off.
Places like this sometimes hide good salvage that’s worth the rads. Old military crates, forgotten tech, maybe even pre-war junk that nobody else has bothered digging out yet. So Zet cautiously edges toward the lip of the crater to get a better look.
“¡¡Ay, Dios–!!” The exclamation bursts out of them before they can stop it.
Several fleshy amalgamations of limbs and tentacles that could only be described as Frankenstein’s rejects drag themselves across the crater, misshapen masses of fused limbs and melted faces stretched and distorted into something grotesque. They gurgle and wheeze like drowning animals, bodies twitching as they perk up towards the new source of movement.
Zet doesn’t lift their gun. They don’t feel threatened—no, they feel disgust. Absolute, bone-deep, skin-crawling disgust.
“Jesucristo,” Zet mutters, already backing away to give them a wide berth around the crater. “¿Quién te dejó salir así?” Jesus Christ… Who let you out like that?
One of the centaurs heaves in response, its writhing tentacles retracting into it’s throat. Zet watches it with a gross fascination.
Suddenly, glob of acidic spit rockets toward Zet’s face. They jerk sideways just in time, the acid splattering against the rock where their head had been a moment earlier, hissing and smoking.
“¡OYE!” Zet recoils with a sharp noise of pure offense. “¡Tus modales hacen juego con tu cara!” Your manners match your face!
Another glob of acid launches toward them in retaliation. Zet bolts—not because they’re scared, but because those things are fucking revolting and they absolutely refuse to spend one more second looking at them.
They scramble up the side of the nearby mountain, flip-flops slapping uselessly against the stone and rubber wedges sliding on loose gravel as they zig-zag upward towards higher ground.
Behind them, the centaurs hiss and groan like a chorus of dying animals.
“¡Ay, vete a la chingada!” they shout down the slope.
Another glob of acid splatters against the rocks inches from their foot.
“¡Mierda—!”
They jerk back so fast they slip on the gravel, nearly pitching them backward down the slope. Maybe flip-flops aren’t the most reliable footwear for off-road terrain…
One hand supports them on the mountain for stability while the other fumbles in their bag. Their grip closes around the shape of a grenade and they yank it out. They bite the pin out with their teeth and hurl it behind them without even bothering to aim. Because that would mean looking back, and they do not want to see anything like whatever those things were ever again.
Behind them—BOOM.
The explosion echoes, a deep rolling thunder that rattles the stone beneath their palms. Bits of debris clatter down the slope below.
Their foot finally finds level ground and their momentum carries them forward–
Face first into a chain-link fence.
If the explosion wasn’t enough noise, their impact sends a loud metallic clang rattling through the air. The fence shudders as Zet lurches against it, grabbing onto the wire mesh before they can fall backward. For several seconds, they just hang there, forehead pressed against the wire, grimacing at the memory of what they just left behind
“Genial…” they mutter under their breath. “Tanto por el maldito atajo.” Great… So much for a damn shortcut.
The peace doesn’t last long. Mere seconds later, their eyes fly open as a gravely voice booms their way and heavy footsteps pound across the ground somewhere behind the fence. The vibrations carry through the metal as something large approaches. They lift their head just in time to see a few Super Mutants charging across the yard towards them, weapons raised.
Zet lets out a sharp yelp. They immediately throw themself sideways and bolt for the nearest structure, ducking behind the corner of a squat concrete building just as the first burst of gunfire erupts.
Bullets rip into the chain-link fence behind them with a violent rattle, sparks flashing where metal meets metal. Zet presses their back against the wall, heart pounding. Their gaze flicks toward the mountain slope, the path they just climbed.
Technically, they could try to run back down.
But with the mutants already shooting at them and the crater of nauseating nightmares waiting below, that option seems… less than ideal.
“Per… fecto,” they sigh. Caught between mutants and whatever those abominations were.
Just another day in the Mojave.
With a frustrated groan, Zet reaches down to their holster and pulls out their plasma pistol. The familiar weight settles into their hand, its green energy beginning to glow. Along it, they retrieve a dose of Jet from their bag.
“Bueno,” Zet murmurs, drawing in a steadying breath through the inhaler. They roll their shoulders, lifting the pistol. “Esto va a doler.” Well, this is going to hurt.
By the time the dust settles, Zet stands in the middle of the cracked courtyard, breathing heavily as the last burst of green plasma fades into the dry air. They holster the pistol and begin the familiar routine: looting.
The mutants are surprisingly well stocked. Ammunition, scrap metal, a handful of caps, and a battered rifle that looks like it’s seen better centuries. There must be a stockpile in one of the nearby buildings. Zet picks through the gear with rehearsed efficiency, occasionally muttering commentary as they go.
“Esto sirve.” This works.
“Esto no.” This doesn’t.
“¿Por qué llevas esto puesto?” Why are you even wearing that?
Eventually they straighten up, wiping their hands on their joggers.
Finally enjoying a moment of calmness, Zet fully surveys the scene. A handful of low concrete buildings sit clustered near the radio tower, their doors hanging crookedly from rusted hinges.
Zet eyes them thoughtfully.
“Bueno,” they say aloud. “Si casi muero aquí, más vale que valga la pena.” If I almost died here, it better be worth it. They target the middle building in the row, pushing the door open with their foot. The hinges groan loudly in protest as it swings inward.
Inside, the air is stale.
It smells like dust, rust, and the faint burning scent of ancient electronics that have been running far longer than they were ever meant to. A set of fluorescent lights flicker overhead, buzzing as they struggle to stay alive after two centuries of neglect. The light casts shadows across the room containing abandoned technology, dusty shelves, and empty desks.
Zet pauses just inside the doorway.
“¡Oh, genial!” Great!
Now this is more their speed.
They slip into the nearest chair and spam a few keys on the terminal to wake it up. The ancient machine whirs to life surprisingly fast, its green text slowly scrolling across the screen.
At first glance, they assume it’s just a report log. Some random mechanic forced to do someone’s bidding. But after a few minutes of digging, Zet notices something.
The code for a locked door that leads to the next room. Their eyebrows lift. Zet tilts their head towards the other terminal and aforementioned door. If there’s a locked door in a place like this…
There’s almost always something behind it worth looting, even if they have to deal with the poor soul stuck in there for it.
Zet shrugs lightly as they rise from the chair.
Even if whoever wrote those logs is still alive in there, they reason, that has nothing to do with them.
And after the day they’ve had?
Zet feels they’ve earned a little treasure.
The second terminal boots up much slower. For a moment, Zet considers that it might not turn on at all. But then the text flickers across the screen and they smile to themself. They type in the password quickly, glancing once toward the sealed door beside it. The screen buffers.
CLEARANCE GRANTED. UNLOCKING…
A quiet mechanical click echoes through the room as the door’s locking mechanism disengages. Zet straightens and reaches for the handle, pushing the door open and–
Oh. There’s a ghoul.
He’s just sitting there.
“Took you long enough. Can I go now?” His voice is raspy, almost playful, but there’s a weariness behind it that makes Zet pause mid-step.
Zet’s eyes flick toward him after a quick, almost perfunctory sweep of the room, searching for anything worth taking. A flattened sleeping bag, a workbench, cracked stools, a few rusted tools—but nothing of particular interest. Their brow furrows, trying to make sense of the ghoul’s words. Who is he? Do they know him? And why exactly is he asking permission?
They don’t ask. Because he’s speaking English, of course. Any attempt at clarification would be wasted effort. So they tilt their head slightly, lifting one brow, hoping the small gesture will carry all the confusion and disbelief they feel.
“Sorry,” the ghoul continues, his tone laced with dry humor. “I assumed the only reason you'd fight past a horde of Super Mutants and pick the lock on my cell is if you heard my cry for help on the radio. But maybe you're just sightseeing. So… since the door’s open and all, can I go now?”
Zet freezes for a heartbeat, their gaze dropping to the Pimp-Boy strapped to their arm. The thought hadn’t even occurred to them... How long had it been since they’d even checked the radio? Ever since leaving Goodsprings, the broadcasts from Mr. New Vegas had been constant background noise, a hum of the Mojave that never needed changing. Yet somehow, they had stumbled right into the very man who's apparently been calling for help.
They study him for a long second. His posture is casual and his eyes are tired but no less sharp. His jumpsuit is faded, frayed at the sleeves, the nametag reading Miguel like a relic calling out to the ghost of its previous wearer. Even with the ghoulish decay in his skin, there’s something undeniably pre-war about him—someone who’s lived long enough to figure out the world.
Zet shrugs slightly, stepping aside. No words. No answers. Just a gesture, letting him leave if he so chooses.
But he doesn’t. Not immediately. Instead, he leans forward in his chair, squinting, and those weary eyes sharpen as though testing their mettle.
Zet says nothing. They resume their methodical inspection of the room, letting their eyes roam over spare parts and rusty tools, trying not to let their curiosity show too clearly.
The ghoul tilts his head, just slightly.
“…What, you don’t speak English?”
It’s clearly a joke, light and teasing, but Zet’s reaction is instantaneous, almost comically sharp. Their head snaps up, eyes wide but wary.
“Eh... Sí, exactamente,” they sigh, nodding and crossing their arms in complete resignation. Their voice is low, measured, carrying a weight that belies their youth. “Estoy divinamente condenade a vagar por el mundo, hablándole al aire como un loco mientras nadie me entiende…” Their shoulders shrug, eyes dropping to the dusty floor at their feet. “En fin, qué es una persona más…” I am cursed to walk the land, talking to the air like a madman with no one to understand me. Oh well, what’s one more person…
The ghoul blinks. Slowly. Once. Twice.
“… Huh.” His lips twitch into something like amusement. A low chuckle escapes him, dry and raspy from decades of disuse, yet somehow warm.
“Híjole… ¿a qué dios le pateaste el altar para que te cayera ese castigo?” Wow... which god’s alter did you kick to get a punishment like that?
Zet freezes. The theatrics, the casual resignation, all of it evaporates. Every muscle stiffens, every breath held, as though the words themselves have stunned them. Slowly, they raise their head, disbelief painting their features.
“… ¿Qué?"
“I said, which god’s altar did you kick to get a punishment like that?” His words are back in English, sure, but they're tinged with genuine curiosity, as if he’s trying to measure the absurdity of the world against the absurdity of Zet. And Zet is pretty damn absurd.
“Espera… ¿Acabas de hablar español?” The words escape in a half-whisper, incredulous, as if speaking them aloud might shatter the reality of what just happened. Wait… Did you just speak Spanish?
“Claro. ¿Por qué?” His voice is casual, like he has this interaction every day. Of course. Why?
“¡¡Porque juro que casi nadie más puede!!” Zet’s hands fly up, gesturing wildly as though trying to grab the very air around them. “O esos cabrones me han estado gastando una broma de mierda todo este tiempo…” Their face twists into a dramatic scowl, eyes blazing with disbelief and indignation. Because basically nobody else does!! Or those bastards have been playing a fucking prank on me all this time…
“Bueno,” he says, “alguien tenía que hacerlo.” Well, somebody has to speak it.
Something clicks in Zet. Their whole body lights up, energy crackling through their movements like the neon lights of the Strip suddenly flipping on. “¡Dios mío! Por fin!!” My God! Finally!!
Without thinking, they grab his shoulders, gripping lightly as if grounding themselves in this miracle of comprehension. Words spill out in a rush, faster than they can even organize. Their hands flail here and there in excited gestures, punctuating every thought, before resting again on his shoulders.
“¡Pensé que estaba atrapada con puro inglés aquí, nadie entiende nada, excepto los robots, y ni siquiera puedo hablarlo ahora y–!” Zet bursts out, hands flailing, voice cracking with the kind of exasperated disbelief that can only come from days of talking to blank stares and clueless glances. I thought I was stuck with only English here, nobody understands anything, except those robots, and I can’t even speak it now and–!
“Vale, no te esfuerces. No tienes que halagar a un viejo.” He chuckles, shaking his head, his voice low and amused. Okay, don’t strain yourself. You don’t have to flatter an old man.
Zet beams at him like he’s just given them a Hungarian thesaurus. Their hands twitch, restless with excitement, and their whole body leans in, desperate to bridge the gap. “¡Sí que tengo! Llevo días hablando con gente que solo me mira como si estuviera loque.” Yes I do! I’ve spent days talking to people who just look at me like I’m insane.
“Pues… probablemente sí te ves un poco loque. Sin ánimo de ofender, jefe.” He raises a brow, the corners of his lips twitching. Well… you probably do look a little crazy. No offence, boss.
“¿Ah, sí?” Zet steps back and scowls again with a joking lilt, humour laced with fire. “Me gustaría ver cómo te comportas después de que te disparen dos veces en la cabeza.” Oh, yeah? I’d like to see how you act after getting shot in the head twice.
The ghoul shakes his head. “Eh, perdón, jefe. Debes tener la cabeza muy dura.” Uh, sorry, boss. You must be very strong-headed.
Zet laughs, a short, bright sound, full and unrestrained. “Es verdad, amigo mío.” They grin wide, eyes shining with the first pure joy they’ve felt in days. “Oye, ¿quieres venir conmigo?” It’s true, my friend. Say, do you want to tag along with me?
They extend their hand—not just for a handshake, but as a bridge, a small offer of partnership. Raul eyes it for a beat, then clasps it firmly, his grip steady. With a creaky groan, he rises from the chair, a subtle shuffle as his legs bear his weight.
“Cualquier cosa es mejor que aquí. Vamos, jefe.” Anything’s better than here. Let’s go, boss.
Zet’s grin only grows, their fingers tightening slightly around Raul’s in a mixture of excitement and disbelief. Joy bubbles through them in unrestrained waves, curling in their chest and radiadiating outwards. For the first time in what feels like forever, someone isn’t just nodding along or pretending to understand—they actually get it. Not some half-learned Latin phrase, not a robot repeating back preprogrammed words. A real, breathing, laughing person who can follow the jumble of their thoughts and respond.
Their hands remain locked, Zet shaking slightly with the sheer relief of connection, while Raul’s steady and unflinching. The gesture alone feels monumental.
“Nombre’s Raul,” he says. “Raul Tejada.”
Zet shakes it back vigorously, still smiling impossibly wide like they just found water in the middle of a desert.
“Zet Mezzofanti.”