Chapter 3 - Gods and Monsters
Based on Gabriel Luna’s song: The Edge of Town
co-created with @millermami ❤️
Author notes: This chapter finally tells the flashback of the day of her biggest trauma and why Tommy is her hero! (Please check the warnings!)
Fic Summary: After a traumatic event, you become one of the most tyrant FEDRA soldiers in Boston QZ. Eventually you get closer to the smuggler (and soon to be firefly) Tommy Miller. Lies, love, betrayal, moral choices among nights of wild love. A slow-burn lovers-to-enemies-to-something-more that asks what you both will sacrifice for love and for survival.
Summary for Chapter 3: In a world where monsters wear uniforms and rebels wear halos, one decision shatters everything you thought you were.
Before being a tyrant FEDRA soldier, you were just an inoffensive nurse on the night shift in the Boston QZ. A quiet clinic, a locked door, and the wrong man walking through it.
Scars are carved — on your skin, on your soul.
Now, years later, under rain and rusted washers, the man who saved you finally recognizes the woman you became. Their collision is heat and heartbreak, a spark in a world designed to crush it. But in the Boston QZ, nothing comes without a cost - and love might be the most dangerous rebellion of all.
Relationships: Tommy Miller x Reader, OC x reader
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, post-outbreak (the last of us), slow burn, romance, smut, angst, past sexual abuse.
3 years and 2 months before
The clinic at night was always too quiet.
You’d worked as a nurse in FEDRA’s QZ long enough to know the rhythm of night shifts: silence thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional drunk soldier or a civilian with a busted lip, foolish enough to break curfew, or hurt badly enough to justify it. Most nights, you sat alone. The curfew kept people inside and, usually, safe. The other nurses hated this rotation. You didn’t mind the loneliness. It was easier than facing the chaos of daylight.
That night, the silence broke with a heavy step. The door creaked.
You looked up, and your stomach dropped. Tall. Broad. Built like a bull. You knew his face. Everyone did. Sebastian. The most wanted Firefly leader.
He shouldn’t be here. FEDRA and the Fireflies were always at war, and this was enemy territory. For a second you wondered how the hell he’d slipped past the night guards. Your hand twitched toward the alarm button, but you stopped yourself. Your kindness hadn’t yet been burned out of you, not completely. If he managed to risk entering a FEDRA restricted area, he might have come for something desperate. Maybe you could help.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.
He smiled, a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Need meds. Got a kid, badly injured. Could die without them.”
He proceeded to tell a story, a story that felt wrong, patched together. But your chest tightened anyway. Against better judgment, you nodded once. “I’ll give you what you need. But you don’t come here again. Next time I’ll have no choice but to call soldiers. Understand?”
“Understand,” he said, too quickly.
You turned, walked to the cabinet, and pulled a few bottles from the shelf. Basic meds, nothing that would raise too many questions if they went missing. He slid them quickly into a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. You had just reached for one last vial when his hand clamped around your wrist.
“Thank you, pretty doll,” he muttered, voice low and mocking. “Too soft for FEDRA, too good for those bastards. A heart like yours doesn’t belong in their chains. You’d be better off with us, you know? The Fireflies could use a good nurse like you. Someone who still remembers how to care, not just how to obey.”
He’s intimidating and it scares you. You try to politely decline and pull back your wrist, but he just grabs the other one, now harder. You freeze for a second, not totally able to acknowledge what's happening.
“Calm down pretty doll, let’s talk. I’m sure we can have a good time if you cooperate. Why don’t we chat a bit and then I leave?”
You can smell his breath. Half beer, half gin or whatever strange alcohol combination.
Desperation kicks in. You can only try to fight against him, uselessly, and ask desperately for him to leave.
“Must be a hell of a dumb girl to decline a request from me. Do you even know who I am? You should be flattered.”
You scream and ask him to let you go. His grip tightened. He could hold both of your wrists with just one hand. The other hand covered your mouth.
You try to scream, panic scraping your throat raw. You can’t believe what's happening.
He shoved you against the desk, one huge hand pushing your back against it, the other fumbling at the tie of your trousers. Your mind went blank. He was too big. Too strong. Fighting felt useless, but you fought anyway, thrashing, clawing. His weight pinned you, his breath hot against your ear.
You heard the scrape of leather, the sound of his buckle coming loose, and dread crashed over you.
“Calm down, doll,” he whispered, breath sour against your cheek. “You’ll see… you’ll like it.”
Then… A click.
Cold steel.
“Get your hands off her.”
Sebastian stiffened. His grip loosened. You twisted, eyes wide.
Tommy Miller. You knew the name, the smuggler from the streets, Joel Miller’s younger brother. You’d seen him passing. But now he stood behind Sebastian, gun pressed to the man’s skull, arm locked tight in a chokehold. His face was hard, but his drawl was low and lethal.
Tommy’s voice cut through the room, low and dangerous - steady despite the slur that showed he’d been drinking. “You touch her again, I’ll paint the wall with your brains. Go, and don’t ever fucking come back.”
Sebastian growled, but he let go. Tommy shoved him toward the door, gun steady until he was gone. The silence after felt louder than screams.
You turned to Tommy, words shaking. “You...thank you...”
Only then did you notice the blood. Dark and heavy, soaking through his shirt. He swayed, the pistol lowering. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.
“Street fight,” he slurred, clearly very drunk. “Got stabbed. Thought I’d find first aid here.” His mouth tilted in a weak grin, but before you could answer, his knees buckled. You caught him with more instinct than strength.
The next hour blurred into motion. Gloves on, hands steady, heart racing. You were still panicking from the encounter with Sebastian, but you could never run away from helping the man who saved you. He’d stepped between you and a monster, even being injured. You stitched his side, cleaned the wound, pressed gauze until the bleeding slowed. He was drunk and smelling like whiskey. Slurring curses, but alive.
When you finish, you sat back, breath ragged. The medications took effect on Tommy, and he was unconscious, chest rising slow. You let yourself whisper into the dark, words he wouldn’t hear. “Thank you.” You allow the tears to roll down your face for the first time in many years.
Tommy left in the morning, when your shift was already over. Not remembering much. You never told him.
The fear stayed. Every shadow felt like Sebastian returning. You hid a pistol in your desk during your shifts, bought a knife to strap at your ankle. You never wanted to feel that powerless again.
You tried to tell yourself it was over. You’d hoped it was a one-time horror from a man that drank too much and lost what little judgment he had left. Still, some fears don't die; they wait in corners until a sound gives them life.
But a few weeks later, the clinic door opened again in that same wrong way. The heavy scrape that always meant someone had come in with too much drink and too little shame. Sebastian stepped through, and he wasn't alone this time. Two other fireflies, John and Hector, shadowed him behind like vultures.
“Wait outside, your turn with doll here will come.” Sebastian ordered.
Panic ripped through you so fast it felt like your own body turned against you. Your legs wanted to run, but they wouldn’t move; your hands trembled uselessly at your sides.
John and Hector proceed to watch the streets while Sebastian cornered you again in the clinic.
This time, there was no gun pressed to his head. No one to drag him off you.
“Too pretty for this world, doll.” he sneered, blade glinting in his hand. He slashed your flesh across your cheek, marking you, branding you. The pain was white fire, but nothing compared to the sickness on your stomach and terror in your veins.
You don’t remember the exact moment his weight forced you down, or the moment your mind broke into glass. You remember the desk under your palms, your trousers down, your body screaming no. You remember John and Hector laughing from outside. You remember Sebastian’s breath heavy, triumphant.
When he was done, he was sloppy, too drunk on power to notice you reaching for the knife at your ankle. The blade found his throat, his chest, his stomach, his face. Again and again, each thrust blurring into the next. One, two, five, fifteen. Twenty-seven stabs before your hands stopped. You had never killed someone before that. You didn't mean the brutality; it was just an automatic reflex of the violence you suffered.
You hide as you hear John and Hector coming back. With the adrenaline in your veins, you are able to surprise John by his back and stab him more times than you can count. The blade went in before he even understood. His body dropped, lifeless.
Hector saw the carnage. His face went pale. He ran away. Maybe not afraid of you, but of the consequences of being there and not being able to save one of the most important Firefly members.
You stood alone in the wreckage, blood soaking your scrubs, hands shaking around a knife you no longer recognized as yours.
FEDRA agents arrived shortly and encountered the mess you made. When they stormed in, you lied. You would never told anyone you were raped. You said they tried to steal meds. You fought them off. It was easier that way.
FEDRA was proud of you and spun the massacre into propaganda: one of their own had crushed two armed Fireflies with a knife. Not any firefly, the most wanted one. Sebastian was long being chased by FEDRA without success. The brutality factor was a plus that they loved and made sure they spread the details. They rewarded you with rank, privileges, and prestige. They put you in a navy-blue uniform. And you pulled the bandana over your scar, as if you could hide this memory from everyone - including yourself.
At this moment, you learned violence. If you couldn’t be invisible, you’d be merciless. Combat and shooting technical skills weren’t difficult for you to pick up. Your years as a firefighter had left you strong and agile, and FEDRA’s training was broad enough to fill in the rest. At first, you are not shaken to practice violence. You don't like it, but you just set your brain as a must-do and a way to let out the rage. It became a habit, like brushing your teeth before bed, like getting up for a shift you hated. Necessary. Automatic.
Sebastian’s death started a new problem. The Fireflies put a target in your head, silent and patient. You felt them behind you on dark streets, saw shadows that slipped away when you turned. They wanted a payback, a slow payback. If it hadn’t been for FEDRA patrols and Victor’s quiet hand steering you, you would probably be dead long ago.
So, you adapted. You learned when to bare teeth and when to stay your hand. Fireflies cornered, bleeding, or caught doing nothing - those you let walk. You still fought, still killed, but not the ones already broken or unarmed. Kindness also became a weapon, the only shield you had. Slowly, they understood you weren’t all rot, not all FEDRA. The chase lost its heat.
And eventually you start to learn to balance it, to survive. Please FEDRA and keep with your benefits and fame, but also allowing yourself to use the rest of kindness and humanity that is left in your heart.
Still, inside, a part of you still whispered that night. The click of a gun. The drawl of a voice.
The memory of the man who saved you once, even if he didn’t remember. You wish he was there again to prevent your world from falling to pieces. But he wasn’t, and now embracing FEDRA’s purpose was the easier way to try to glue it back together.
You told yourself not to go. Over and over as the hour crept toward 10 PM, as your boots carried you down the ruined street, under the heavy rain, as you passed the checkpoint lamps that burned like eyes. Don’t go. Don’t give Miller another piece of you. Don’t make this worse than it already is.
And yet, your steps found the laundry room again. The hollow of broken washers and shadows, where he’d been waiting last time.
He was there now too, leaning against the machine. Tommy looked exhausted, tense, like every second before you arrived there had been a battle in his chest. He wasn’t just waiting. He was terrified you wouldn’t come. That maybe this time you’d finally listen to your head instead of your heart. He’d spent years surviving for Joel, for smuggling, for scraps. But this, you, were the first thing in years that felt like it might be worth breaking all his rules for. And the thought of losing it before it began carved him open.
When he saw you, his grin cracked through the dim, relief flooding his face.
“Knew you’d come,” he said, drawl warm as whiskey. Even though he didn’t.
“Is this confidence sold in bottles somewhere in Boston?” You sighed, pulling your coat tighter. “I shouldn’t be here.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped further inside, shaking the rain out of your coat, the heavy air with dust and the faint smell of rust. You pulled the bandana down for a second, meaning only to breathe, to take one moment of freedom from the soaked fabric. But when you looked up, he was staring.
His breath caught. “Jesus Christ…” The words slipped out hoarse, raw. He took half a step closer, shaking his head slowly, almost in disbelief. “You’re - God, you’re beautiful.”
It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t a line. It was the shock of a man who’d expected ruins, something to prove his worst fears, and instead found a face that undid him. His eyes roamed as if he were memorizing every detail, terrified you might vanish if he blinked.
You freeze, heat rushing your face, ashamed by the lapse of your unguarded reflex. “Don’t.” You move your bandana back, now even higher.
But he kept staring, eyes caught in a storm of confusion and recognition. His brows pulled tight, as if his mind was chasing something he couldn’t quite catch. He stepped closer, slowly, his hand lifting like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for the memory clawing its way back.
“Just… you’re somethin’ else. Prettiest damn thing I’ve seen since this world went to hell.”
“You can’t be serious.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your voice tight. “You barely had time to see a thing, anyway.”
His eyes were wide, stricken, like he’d been searching for this face forever. He reached out slowly for you, fingers brushing your jaw.
“You…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I know you. I’ve seen you before.” He blinked, the pieces of memory falling into place. His chest rose hard, like the air had punched out of him. “The clinic. That night.” His eyes widened in sudden realization, his voice breaking on the words. “Goddamn—it was you. It’s been you all along.”
He reached out, fingers brushing your jaw as though the touch could prove it real, then gently pulled the bandana down again. This time, you didn’t fight.
Your throat tightened. “You don’t remember all of it.” Your hand moves without thinking toward him, fingers brushing the faint scar over his shirt along his torso where you’d stitched him that night. The fabric was thin there, heat radiating beneath it, and for a moment you let yourself feel the proof that he had been real in your hands once before.
“I remember enough,” he said, voice low. His gaze locked on yours. “Him on you. My gun at his head. Your scared eyes. Been carryin’ them in my chest ever since. How could I have missed this?”
“Well, the bandana works at least… uniform and soldier hair style helped a bit, I guess.” You smirk, but the truth was obvious: the scared eyes were gone, replaced by something merciless.
“Darlin’,” he said, while brushing his fingers in your face with one hand, and your arm with the other hand. His gaze so intense it felt like he was stripping your soul bare. His eyes flicked down to your lips, lingering there, the silence stretching heavy between you before he found his voice again. “If it’s the scar you’re hidin’ behind that bandana… Lord, have mercy, you’re still the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on. Scar and all. Hell, especially with it. Like you walked through hellfire and came out stronger than it. But I know it ain’t just a mark on your skin.”
Your breath trembled. “Tommy…”
But then his expression hardened, eyes darkening, jaw tight. “He came back, didn’t he? Goddamn son of a bitch…” His thumb stilled against your skin, his breath rough with anger. “That’s why you killed him?”
You don’t want to talk about this. You don’t want him to feel guilty about not being there to prevent the disaster. But your wet eyes betrayal you.
His thumb continues to brush your cheek “I wish I’d shot him that night instead of lettin’ the fucker crawl off. Christ, what the hell was I thinkin’? I had him right there, gun to his head, and I just let him walk.”
“Tommy, don’t do this to yourself.”
His voice cracked, thick with regret. He pulled you into his chest, hugging you tight, his words muffled against your hair. “Should’ve known better. God, I’m so sorry you had to go through this shit. If I’d been there… I swear to you, darlin’, I’d have killed him myself.”
The confession twisted something in you, hurt and comfort tangled into one. You pulled back enough to look at him, forcing a shaky smirk through your tears. “Too bad you didn’t get yourself shot or stabbed again to be there for me.”
He cupped your face like you were breakable, like you were holy. “I’d take the bullet, take the knife, whatever it cost, just to keep you safe.”
He leaned in, rough and certain.
The air went taut. You are not even fighting against your reasons anymore. Your body leaned forward. His mouth met yours, warm and clumsy, desperate and real. A kiss like breaking glass, shattering the walls you’d built, spilling all the things you swore to keep locked away. A long kiss that felt lasting hours, and yet not long enough.
When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your lips still tingling.
“Is this a mistake?” you whispered.
“Hell yeah,” he agreed. “But it’s ours.”
“Can’t.” A grin broke on his lips, his hand came up to cradle your face, the other sliding firm around your waist, pulling you closer. “Feels like the first good crime I’ve committed in years.” Before you could answer, his mouth found yours again, softer this time but no less desperate. You slipped your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, he groaned into the kiss like he’d been waiting for that touch all his life, as if it was the one thing that can prove he was alive.
But all of a sudden, something inside you cracked open like ice breaking under the weight. Because nothing good ever lasted without a thousand shadows rushing in to haunt you. For a fleeting second, it had felt like warmth. Like the world had given you back something you weren’t meant to have.
What the hell am I doing?
Affection, in this rotting world, wasn’t salvation. It was risk. Risk of being vulnerable, risk of being torn apart, risk of losing it all, waking up one day with nothing but fear where your heart used to be.
You pulled back, breath ragged, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry Tommy… I can’t.” The word came harsher than you meant.
Tommy froze, his hand still resting at your waist. “What do you mean, darlin’?”
“This… us… we can’t. It will only make our lives harder. This is not supposed to happen.” You stepped back, tugging the bandana higher as if it could erase what just happened.
“Sweetheart… I don’t understand- ” Tommy says while trying to pull you back, making you give another step back.
“Tommy… I’m- I’m really sorry. This will never work. We can daydream about it, and gosh, God knows how much I do. But it only belongs in our dreams. Out here, in the real world… it will only get us hurt.”
“I would never hurt you- “
“Maybe you won’t. But life will.” You swallow, bitterness spiking.
Tommy’s laugh is sharp and disbelieving, a sound with grief under it. “So you’re gonna let fear run you?” He steps forward, hands open like he’s offering a lifeline. “We can choose. We can-”
“Tommy. Let’s be realistic. How long until we cross paths and it’s me or you? Or how long until one of us takes a bullet in our head for any stupid reason? Life’s a countdown, Tommy, and the less attached we are to anything, the better.”
“That’s bullshit. So, that’s it then? You’ll never even try? You will just wait to die, and that’s fine for you?” Tommy’s shoulders slump, but he refuses the dramatics. His voice goes quiet, hard with sorrow and something like accusation.
You turned, boots echoing in the hollow room. “This must end here. You copy, Miller?”
Confusion clouded his face, then anger softened into something closer to hurt.
“You’re wrong, darlin’, you are so wrong.” he muttered into the dim, his voice rough, almost breaking.
And then you were gone, leaving him in the dust and rust of the laundry room, his chest hollowing out.
Tommy leaned back against the dead washer, dragging a hand over his face. The grin, the warmth, the kiss - gone as quick as they came.
You storm away from the laundry room. Your heart pounding with pain, your boots heavy on the wet cobblestones. Rain and tears ran together down your face, your soaked bandana barely letting you breathe.
You have one good reason to stay - but too many to walk away.
It was unfair, cruel, what surviving demands. In a land of gods and monsters, even angels learned to sharpen their claws. The idea of losing someone again, after everything already lost in the outbreak, was crushing enough to keep you from daring to try.
What you need is focus. Discipline. The sharp, narrow path forward. FEDRA’s rules were chains, yes. But they were also armor. Being with a smuggler would only blur the edges of the walls you’d spent years building.
You had a clear goal: to ascend through the ranks, to shape the corporation from the inside, to make it something better. To turn tyranny into order, chaos into structure. A long path, but no one else would walk it if you didn’t.
Play by the rules… until you’re powerful enough to change the rules yourself.
You’d just walked past the old pizzeria on your way back, dragging each step like you were pulling your bones through mud. Every movement felt miserly.
Then Tommy’s voice cut the silence calling your name.
Tommy approaches, catching your hand. “Why?” he asked.
Your guard slipped. You tightened your grip on his hand. “Tommy… we’re fooling ourselves, thinking this could ever be real,” your other palm rising to cradle his face.
“You’re scared of bein’ happy.” he said into the quiet, his voice low, frayed at the edges. He held you gently at the waist and pulled you closer. “World’s gone to hell, and you’d rather wear chains than let yourself feel somethin’ real.”
“Exactly,” you snapped, your throat tightening.
For a moment, his eyes felt like a safe place. And against your better judgment, you let your fears spill out. “I can’t afford to get soft. I can’t afford you. I can’t afford to let you in just to lose you.”
He stepped closer, you didn’t move back. His nearness pressed like heat against your skin, his breath mixing with yours, the space between you shrinking until it hurt to resist.
You continue. “FEDRA doesn’t just have rules about curfew, rebellions, and contraband. They’ve got codes, ethics about relationships. You think they’d let me stay in uniform if anyone knew?”
He shook his head, stepping closer, desperate. “Darlin’- ”
“It can’t be for nothing,” you cut in, voice cracking. “Losing everything in the outbreak. Living in this rotten world. Being…” your hand traced the line of your scar, “…designed as a soldier. Then, all this shit I’ve done.” You swallowed hard. “The only reason I keep moving forward is the idea of climbing high enough in FEDRA to make things work in a fair way. And I know I’m not a hero, not some savior, not innocent. But I do the best I can to serve FEDRA, and still be useful to this community that needs more than just rules to survive.”
Your eyes lifted to his. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His gaze was steady, comprehensive, carrying the kind of understanding you hadn’t found anywhere else.
You continue. “It might not be the best way, but it’s the only way I’ve found to break the cycle. Push and pull. And so far, it’s working. And this… us… would only drag me further away from it.”
Silence folded over them for a moment.
“I heard it all, sweetheart. I understand you,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, but burning underneath. His eyes searched yours, soft and unshaken. “But now it’s my turn. Can you listen to me, please?”
He took a breath, and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs resting at your cheekbones. His fingers edged toward the bandana for a beat, then stopped. “May I?” he asked, small as a plea. You give a single nod.
With slow, careful fingers he slid the bandana down. “You think I don’t know what you’re sayin’? That I don’t see the weight you carry, the walls you built to keep from losin’ more than you already have? I do. Hell, I felt it before you ever spoke it out loud. That fight in you, wantin’ to change things, even from inside the monster’s belly… that’s what drew me in. That’s what makes me keep comin’ back.”
His jaw tightened, but his eyes glowed with something softer. “You call it duty. FEDRA rules, uniform, fear. But I see it for what it is. You’re rebelling, even if you’d never admit. You’re pushin’ against a world that wants you cold, heartless. And you still choose to care. That’s rarer than anythin’ else left alive in this world.”
His voice deepens, not pleading but certain. “You say love’s a distraction. I say it’s the only thing keepin’ us from turnin’ to dust. You think lettin’ me in will make you weak. But I swear to you, darlin’, it’ll make us both stronger. We both want the same things.”
…You’re fightin’ to make this world better your way, and I… I’m tryin’ to do the same, in mine. He thinks, but didn’t dare to say it aloud. The conversation was already hard enough with you in the dark about him joining the Fireflies; and he couldn’t tell you yet. Hopefully, he told himself, one day your rebellion would find its way to his cause, and they’d be fighting on the same side.
He let out a sharp laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only a crack of hope. “For the first time in years, I feel like I could be more than just a man survivin’ off scraps and sins.”
His hand found yours, rough thumb brushing your knuckles, his gaze never leaving your face. “So tell me again, darlin’. Tell me straight to my face that we’re better off pretendin’ we don’t feel this. Tell me, and I’ll walk away right now. But if you can’t…” His voice dropped to a near whisper, aching and sure, “then stop runnin’. Let this be real.”
His words hung between you like fire in the rain. For a heartbeat, you wanted to step into it. To let yourself fall.
You held his gaze too long, your throat tightening, your heart begging you to surrender. Then, with a slow, shuddering breath, you shoved it all down where it belonged. Bury it deep. Rip off the bandage. You are Butcher. Better to kill this now than let hope rot you from the inside.
Your voice was tender at first, almost breaking. “Feel what, Tommy? You barely know me. I certainly don’t know you. I don’t know what you think you saw in me.” You forced yourself to keep going, each word sharper than the last. “But whatever you’re looking for… doesn’t exist. Not in me. Not in this world. You think I can give you what you need? What you want?” Your voice cracked, but you ground it into steel. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I won’t.”
Silence. Only the sound of the rain falling.
For a moment his eyes still burned with hope, until he realized your words were the end.
He nodded once, more to himself than to you, and stepped back.
“I know exactly what I saw on you,” Tommy said, gaze deep, voice raw.
He didn’t argue. He just turned away, boots dragging as the sound of him faded into the night, leaving you alone with your hard words.
The silence he left behind caved in on you. Your chest heaved as if the air itself had turned to stone, and every part of you screamed to run after him, to take it all back.
And in the hollow ache that followed, you felt it clear as a wound: you weren’t just pushing him away. You were giving up on something you loved - too much.
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