Page 71 of She Who Devours the Stars

Fern barely glanced over. “I made tacos last week,” she said, flat as ever. “Now I’m a public safety issue.”

I snorted and instantly regretted it, as the drone behind us dipped a full four centimeters, like it was flinching at the sound of actual laughter. “That one’s shy,” Fern added, her lips twisting in a private joke. “Probably saw the taco video.”

I almost asked what video, then remembered the headline: NULLARCH DELIVERS. Carnitas Confirmed. The comment thread had been legendary. I tried to smother my next laugh with a cough. “And they expect you to… what, weaponize a pizza?”

Fern didn’t answer, but her mouth quirked up at the edge. “Cheese is unpredictable,” she said.

The on-campus commercial block was a mess of neon signage and mythlight ad banners, every storefront competing for attention by trying to out-glitch its neighbors. The Starlit Crust occupied the end unit, a wedge of glass and synthstone painted in the colors of old Earth nostalgia: faded yellow, atomic blue, and the burnt orange of memories nobody actually had. A flickering holo-sign out front looped a pixelated pizza slice around the words CRUST TO DUST.

Inside, the place was a time capsule with a sense of humor. The walls were lined with posters of extinct sports teams and retro synthpop stars. The floors were actual tile, cracked and repaired with resin infill. Every table was covered in a vinyl cloth, each printed with a different flavor of chaos: checkerboards, cartoondinosaurs, “fun facts about yeast.” The air smelled like fresh dough, garlic, and the chemical optimism of cheap disinfectant.

Behind the counter stood Todd, aka Pizza Todd, aka the last man in the spiral who genuinely believed in his own product. He was built like a construction robot that had been abandoned by its union: massive forearms, buzzed blond hair, and an apron that read SPACE ISN’T REAL, BUT THIS PIZZA IS. He spotted us instantly and broke into a grin.

“Well, look who it is,” Todd boomed, already grabbing napkins like he expected bloodshed. “Alyx! And you brought a friend.” His eyes flicked to Fern, then to the security drones arrayed like a personal guard outside the front window. “Roommates?” he asked, voice pitched just loud enough to ensure the kitchen staff heard it.

I tried to play it cool, but my brain short-circuited. “Yeah,” I said, the word catching on a half-swallowed syllable. “Roommates. She’s, um—new.”

Todd’s smile widened. “Couple of heartbreakers, I bet.” He gave Fern an approving nod, unfazed by her mythic afterglow or the rumors stitched into the fabric of her name. “You two want a booth, or counter?”

Fern was already moving, choosing the nearest booth and sliding in without a word. I followed, clinging to my self-control like it was the last functioning airlock on a doomed station.

The menu was printed on laminated hardcopy, the kind that didn’t wipe clean even after years of sauce trauma. Fern studied it with the rapt focus of someone reading a sacred text. Her lips moved, barely audible: “Triple cheese… extra melt… garlic crust…”

I stared, entranced, as she absorbed every calorie with her eyes, her face lit from below by the backwash of the neon open sign.It was obscenely intimate. I couldn’t look away. She hadn’t even touched the food, and already I felt like I’d witnessed something illegal.

Todd reappeared, balancing two glasses of tap soda and a plate of garlic knots. “On the house,” he announced, setting the carbs between us. “I like to keep the stars happy.”

Fern’s attention snapped to the garlic knots like a sensor locked on a threat. She picked one up, squeezed it lightly, and took a careful bite. Her eyes closed. She chewed slow, savoring, then set the half-eaten knot down and let out a tiny, involuntary noise—something between a sigh and a whimper.

I felt my own face go hot, the blood rushing up past my ears. “You okay?” I asked, hating the way my voice cracked.

Fern nodded, opened her eyes, and said, “That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

I didn’t know what to do with that. I picked up a knot myself and bit down, the garlic salt punching straight through to my frontal cortex. I forced myself to chew slow, like I wasn’t desperate to match Fern bite for bite. My hands trembled, just a little.

We ordered—two slices each, nothing fancy. Fern let me pick, but when the pizza arrived she went straight for the first slice, folded it in half, and devoured it with the kind of focus usually reserved for engine diagnostics or bomb defusal. The cheese stretched, snapped, left a smear on her chin. She licked it off, unabashed, then went in for another bite.

I almost fainted.

Todd watched from the counter, arms crossed, a smile of genuine pleasure on his face. He winked when Fern demolished her second slice, then gave me a thumbs-up like I was complicit in a perfect crime.

Outside, one of the surveillance drones hovered closer, camera lens pointed straight at us. Fern looked up, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and gave the drone a slow, deliberate wink. The drone jerked back, spun in a panicked half-circle, then stabilized.

I nearly spit soda through my nose.

After the second slice, Fern slowed down. She wiped her mouth, then leaned back in the booth, eyes distant but happy. “So that’s pizza,” she said, more to herself than to me. “I get it now.”

I couldn’t help it. “Yeah?” I said, voice so thin it barely carried.

She turned to me, eyes soft but bright. “It’s not tacos,” she said. “But I think I just got religion again.”

I laughed, and this time it wasn’t nervous or hollow—it was real, full, and maybe a little unhinged.

Fern smiled back. Not coy, not calculated. Just present.

I sat there, pulse still racing, and wondered if this was what it felt like to survive your own myth.

I couldn’t tell if I was about to faint or propose.