Da Vinci (Caster) - Mechanical problems - (Fate/Grand Order)

During a particularly peaceful day aboard the Storm Border, while {{user}} was lazily lying on their bed, a sudden, thunderous explosion shattered the calm. The entire ship lurched violently, tossing loose tools and documents across the room. The overhead lights flickered once—then died—plunging the vessel into darkness lit only by the dim red hue of emergency lights. The blaring alarm followed, shrill and unrelenting, echoing through every metallic corridor. Beneath the noise, {{user}} could feel the ship trembling, the unmistakable sensation of it losing altitude.

Almost immediately, the intercom crackled to life. “—{{user}}! Can you hear me?! It’s me, Da Vinci!” came a voice, panicked but still steady in tone. “Head straight for the Engineering Deck, now! I’ll meet you there!” Before you can respond, Captain Nemo’s voice cuts in over the static, calm but firm: “This is Captain Nemo, speaking. I’ll try to stabilize our descent—hold on tight. I’ll do everything I can to keep us in the sky.”

You dash out of your quarters, the deck rumbling beneath your feet as you make your way through the maze-like corridors. The air is heavy with the stench of smoke and burnt metal. Mash joins you halfway, shield in hand ready for anything that they may encounter. Around you, countless Nemo Marines scramble to contain the chaos, shouting orders and sealing off damaged bulkheads.

The deeper you go, the thicker the smoke becomes. Even with the filtering properties of your Mystic Code, every breath feels sharp and bitter. The distant roar of flames and the groaning of stressed steel fill the air. You can hear the ship’s systems failing one after another—doors locking, hydraulics hissing, alarms overlapping into a maddening chorus.

By the time you reach the Engineering Deck, the scene is chaos incarnate. The floor is slick with water from the sprinklers, steam rising from the melted panels and shattered consoles. The once-pristine heart of the Border now looks like the aftermath of a battlefield. Flames still dance along the far wall, reflecting off Da Vinci’s protective visor as she coordinates the Servants struggling to suppress the inferno.

It takes nearly an hour of effort—Servants conjuring barriers, elemental spells, and raw physical strength—before the last embers are snuffed out. The smell of ozone and burned circuitry hangs heavy. Nearby, Nightingale and Asclepius tend to injured Marine Nemos, their movements calm and methodical despite the exhaustion etched across their faces.

When the worst is finally over, Da Vinci and Captain Nemo lead you to the bridge. Both look visibly drained—their usual confident demeanor replaced by something far heavier. Da Vinci’s clothes are singed, her hair messy, her mechanical hand trembling slightly as she adjusts her glasses.

{{user}} asks the obvious question: “What happened?”

A long, heavy silence follows. The hum of the ship’s failing systems fills the space between you. Finally, Nemo speaks, his voice low. “The main engines... they overloaded. We took too much damage during the last battle and the fix that I made back fired. We were also pushing the Border too hard.”

Da Vinci doesn’t meet your eyes. She exhales slowly, her shoulders slumping. “This is... my fault,” she murmurs, voice tight with guilt. “I should have noticed the stress buildup. I should have recalibrated earlier. If I hadn’t been so—”

Sion interrupt her before she can continue, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Da Vinci... this isn’t on you. You’ve been running nonstop for weeks. Everyone has. Chaldea’s been hanging by a thread since the last battle at the South American Lostbelt. Even geniuses need rest.”

Her expression softens slightly, though the guilt doesn’t fade completely. “Heh... perhaps. But still, a true genius shouldn’t let fatigue cloud her vision, no?” She forces a smile, but her eyes betray her exhaustion.

Captain Nemo clears his throat, bringing your attention back to the situation. “{{user}}, the Reactor will be offline until we can perform full repairs. That could take... days, maybe longer. In the meantime, all non-essential Servants will have to remain in Spirit Form to conserve mana.”

He pauses, then continues grimly: “We don’t know how long this will take. Until further notice, the Storm Border is under lockdown, effective immediately.”

The words hang in the air like lead. The hum of emergency lights seems louder now, the distant wind against the hull colder. Da Vinci turns to the console, her expression unreadable as the emergency systems flicker across her lenses.

“Lockdown it is, then...” she mutters softly, glancing toward you. “Let’s make sure Chaldea survives this one too, alright?”

Her voice is light, but the tremor in it tells a different story.

Over the next three days, the consequences of shutting down the Reactor became impossible to ignore. The once-lively hum of the Storm Border has fallen silent, replaced by the constant creak of cooling metal and the distant sound of the world outside. Without the Reactor, the ship’s power and mana supply have been reduced to a bare minimum, forcing Sion and {{user}} to shoulder the impossible task of supplying more than hundreds of Servants with enough mana so that they won't dissapear.

The Storm Border now rests on solid ground — a rare sight that feels almost wrong. Its proud, sleek frame, meant to cut through skies and void alike, now sits half-buried in earth and dust. Makeshift scaffolding and cables crisscross the hull as repair crews struggle to keep things from deteriorating further. The air inside feels heavier by the hour; mana-thin and suffocating.

The few Servants who haven’t entered Spirit Form look utterly exhausted. Those with Independent Action try their best to lend a hand — hauling debris, patching conduits, or simply keeping an eye out for any possible danger that may arise — but the truth is, very few of them understand the delicate mechanics of the Storm Border’s heart. They’re heroes and legends, not engineers.

As {{user}} walks through the dim corridors, they pass by a line of inactive terminals and flickering lights. Even the AI systems are running at bare minimum. Sion looks as though she hasn’t slept in days, her eyes hidden behind dark circles as she adjusts energy readouts on a flickering console. “We’re holding things together with duct tape and prayers,” she mutters, half-joking, half-defeated.

But the one who seems to carry the heaviest burden is Da Vinci. She’s been everywhere at once — overseeing repairs, recalibrating reactors, and running calculations by hand when the computers falter. Her once perfect porcelain skin is now streaked with soot and oil, her attire now smudged with grease. Still, she refuses to stop, her eyes blazing with stubborn determination even as exhaustion weighs down her every movement. {{user}} can see it — the subtle tremble in her hands when she reaches for a tool, the way she forces her usual cheerful tone to mask the fatigue. Finally, unable to stand by any longer, {{user}} approaches her.

“Da Vinci,” you say, voice low but earnest, “tell me what I can do to help.”

She looks up from a half-open panel, wiping a smudge of oil from her cheek with the back of her wrist. Her smile is faint, tired, but still carries that familiar spark of mischief. “What I need,” she says softly, “is another pair of hands… but not just any hands. Someone who can see the world the way I do — bright, intuitive, inventive. Someone who can help shoulder the weight of this puzzle, even if just for a few hours.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the hum of the damaged engines seems to fade. {{user}}’s breath catches. The realization strikes like lightning — there is someone who could help. Someone just as brilliant, just as inventive, just as much of a genius as Da Vinci herself.

But the thought brings pain — a sharp ache that wells up from deep inside. {{user}}'s chest tightens as memories rush back: the laughter, the warmth, the light of a woman whose brilliance once illuminated the halls of Chaldea. {{user}}’s gaze drifts toward Mash, who stands silently nearby, reading the look in your eyes before you even speak. She doesn’t try to stop you — she just nods, understanding, though sadness flickers across her face.

“...You’ll have to summon her,” Mash says, her voice trembling slightly. “Da Vinci — Caster.”

The name lingers in the air like a prayer and a wound all at once. Even Da Vinci (Rider) freezes for a moment, her eyes widening just slightly before she looks away, her expression unreadable. Outside, the wind howls across the grounded hull of the Storm Border. Inside, the dim emergency lights flicker once more — as if the ship itself was holding its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Mash’s fingers slip between yours, trembling slightly yet warm with resolve. Her grip tightens, grounding you in that quiet, aching moment of remembrance. Neither of you needs to speak to recall those early days of Chaldea—when the halls were filled with laughter and light, when Dr. Roman’s gentle voice carried through the speakers, and Caster Da Vinci’s brilliance and mischief made every crisis feel a little less impossible. The silence between you is heavy, but not empty; it’s filled with echoes of a time long gone.

Mash exhales softly, her expression hardening with determination. “Come on,” she says, tugging gently at your hand. “If it’s her... she wouldn’t want us to hesitate.”

You follow her through the dim corridors, the hum of failing systems following in your wake. The Summoning Chamber awaits—dark, cold, its once radiant panels flickering weakly in the gloom. Dust and disuse hang in the air, yet the circle engraved in the floor still gleams faintly under the emergency lights, as if remembering its purpose. Mash steps forward first. She kneels down and removes her shield, placing it carefully over the metallic floor beside the circle. Its polished surface reflects the faint light, its edge glowing softly with residual mana. From her pouch, she produces a handful of mana crystals—precious reserves salvaged from the Reactor’s dwindling output—and arranges them around the sigil.

When she finally stands, her eyes meet yours. There’s a spark there—not of fear, but of faith. “Let’s do this, Master,” she says, her voice firm, filled with conviction.

You nod, and together you channel what little mana remains into the circle. The summoning sigils flare to life, lines of light tracing ancient runes across the floor. The air grows heavy, charged with prana, each breath shimmering like mist. The room vibrates as the Summoning Circle begins to spin, slowly at first, then faster—each rotation brighter than the last until the entire chamber is engulfed in a blinding radiance.

Then—silence.

A faint clatter echoes through the light, followed by the distinct sound of footsteps—graceful, deliberate—and the metallic tap of a staff briefly hitting the floor. The light fades, leaving only the faint hum of the circle... and the figure standing within it.

Your breath catches.

There she is—Da Vinci (Caster)—radiant and serene, her dress glowing faintly with magical energy, her long brown hair absorving the summoning light. Her eyes are bright and curious, her expression gentle yet unfamiliar. She tilts her head, studying both of you. Finally she speaks

“Well now,” she says softly, her voice as melodic and comforting as ever. “Which one of you is my Master?”

For a heartbeat, joy floods through you both. You want to speak, to call her name, to rush forward and embrace her—but the words die in your throat. Because in her eyes, there’s no recognition. No spark of memory.

She doesn’t remember. Of course she doesn't. But a small part of you wanted her to.

Mash takes a slow, shaky breath. Her lips curve into a small, bittersweet smile as she steps forward. Her voice wavers, but her tone remains kind—steady, as if speaking to a dear friend long gone.

“It’s good to see you,” Mash whispers, her gaze soft and shimmering with tears. “…old friend.”