AGENT SOLARIS // VALORANT x Male Reader

Chapter 3 // The Protocol (⭐️)

(𝙸)

The drive back was quiet, for the most part. Uneventful, if you didn't count the occasional glare Sage threw your way— quick, almost reflexive, but not subtle enough to miss. You weren't sure if she resented your fire or the chaos it came with.

Or your first impression. Those are everything.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had no such restraint. He kept chirping beside you in the backseat, tossing out jokes like he was trying to fill the silence with his voice alone. You gave him plenty of material to work with, too, throwing verbal jabs that drew real laughter from him—sharp, unfiltered, and rare.

Cypher, seated in the front, only half-turned at one point to ask how your investigation into the cartel was progressing. You told him what you could: that it was slow-going, and that it had to be. Cartels weren't street gangs you could knock over in a week — they were systems, machinery. Rusted, sure, but massive. You dismantled them piece by piece, quietly, perfectly. One misstep, and people died. Lots of people.

He nodded once, seemingly satisfied. The rest of the ride passed in a blur of asphalt and desert wind.

Eventually, Brimstone eased the vehicle to a stop near the transport ship, its silhouette resting on the cracked tarmac like a waiting beast. Phoenix hopped out first, stretching as he stepped into the light. You followed, sliding your helmet under your arm as your boots hit the pavement.

Brimstone came out last. Just as the side hatch hissed open.

The ship wasn't much to look at — interior barely the size of your old living room. Walls lined with fold-down seating. Cold steel floor. No frills. Just what you'd expect from a military organization that needed more utility than comfort.

But then... a presence emerged from the cockpit. One that didn't move like a man should.

"Omen," Sage said softly, brushing past your shoulder.

He stood half-shrouded in the gloom, as if the shadows followed him deliberately. Smoke curled off his limbs like he wasn't made of solid matter at all — just something imitating it. A ghost in a war machine.

"Still holding up, Omen?" Sage asked.

"For now," came the voice — dry and serrated, like something dragged across bone. It wasn't the kind of voice you heard; it was one that settled on your spine and made itself known.

Omen's head turned toward you slowly. His mask betrayed nothing, but something behind it shifted. Weighed you.

"This is the new one?" he rasped. You couldn't tell if he sounded disappointed... or just unsurprised.

Sage gave a small nod and stepped aside to speak with him quietly. You stayed where you were, removing your helmet and letting the cooler air wash over your scarred face. You caught Omen glancing at the markings etched into your skin — stories written in burns and blade lines.

Brimstone stepped over, arms folded, expression somewhere between commander and father figure.

"We'll be at HQ in a half hour," he said. "You'll go through standard combat certification and After that, you're in."

He gave your shoulder a heavy pat — firm, but not impersonal. A gesture earned, not offered lightly.

"Welcome aboard, kid. And... sorry about your door."

You smirked faintly. "Yeah. Me too."

Brimstone studied you for a beat longer than expected. Not quite suspicion. Not sympathy either. Just understanding. He saw it in you—whatever 'it' was. The same way he must've seen it in the others, years ago.