webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The morning light bleeding through the blinds of the clinic was muted, filtering in thin, dusty slats that failed to pierce the lingering gloom of the room. Jim sat on the edge of the high, padded examination table, his legs dangling slightly, heels catching on the metal rung beneath. The scent of ozone, antiseptic, and something faintly metallic pressed against his senses, keeping his pulse at a brittle, restless pace. His coat was gone, folded somewhere nearby, and his sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, leaving his pale skin exposed to the chilling air of the room.

Leslie Thompkins moved into his blurred field of vision, her movements measured and steady. She stood close enough that he could feel the subtle warmth radiating from her white coat. He felt the soft, practiced touch of her fingers on his chin as she tilted his head back, pulling his eyelids apart. A penlight sparked to life, blooming like a harsh, miniature sun before his pupils. The light hurt, but he forced himself to hold still, his breath hitched in a shallow rhythm that refused to settle.

"Look at the wall, Jim. Don't fight the light," she murmured, her voice a calm anchor that barely kept him from drifting into the fraying edges of his own panic.

He squinted past her, focusing on a crack in the plaster of the far wall, trying to ground himself in the mundane reality of the room. He felt the minute tremor in his hands, which he had braced against the cold vinyl of the table, the surface slick and unyielding beneath his palms. Harley was there too, he knew, though he did not look toward the corner. He could hear the soft scuff of her boots against the linoleum, a rhythmic, tense sound that he felt in his spine rather than saw.

Leslie clicked off the light, her hand lingering for a fleeting second on his shoulder, a brief gesture of professional solidarity that made something tighten in his chest. She moved to the side, and he heard the metallic rattle of instruments on a tray, the clinking of glass vials, and the soft rustle of rubber gloves being snapped into place. Each sound felt unnaturally loud, amplified by the ringing in his ears that had been his constant companion since the warehouse.

"I need to take a blood sample, Jim," she said, her tone devoid of judgment, entirely focused on the mechanics of care. "This will confirm what I suspect is happening to your system."

He watched her prepare the needle, his mind hazy with the residual ghost-images of things that were not there—shadows stretching into elongated, jagged shapes in the corners of his vision. He gripped the edge of the table tighter, his knuckles turning white as he felt the pinch of the needle against the crook of his elbow. He squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp inhale escaping him as the cold, sharp sensation of intrusion broke the surface of his skin.

"Breathe, Jim," Leslie repeated, her voice closer now, steadying him as she adjusted the tube.

He listened to the faint suction of the drawing blood, the steady pulse of his own biology being siphoned off for analysis. It was a strange, distancing sensation, as if the blood being taken was untethered from the man sitting on this table. He looked at Harley from the corner of his eye, seeing the silhouette of her frame hunched near the door, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. She watched with an intensity that felt protective, almost predatory in its vigilance, as if she were guarding the clinic from the ghosts that had hounded him all night.

Leslie stepped away to the workstation, and the ensuing silence was heavy, thick with the weight of things unsaid. Jim remained on the table, feeling thin and exposed, his heart rate finally beginning a slow, agonizing descent from the peak of his terror. He tried to think of his office, the stack of reports on his desk, the taste of lukewarm coffee, any anchor to the world he recognized before it had disintegrated into the nightmare of the past few hours.

"The results confirm the presence of a neurotoxin," Leslie said after a long, agonizing space, her voice low and grave as she walked back toward him. "It is a concentrated form of a fear-inducing agent, Jim. It explains the hallucinations, the tremors, the absolute exhaustion you are experiencing. You are not losing your mind in the way you feared. You are being chemically assaulted."

She looked at him with an expression of profound, quiet empathy, her spectacles reflecting the clinic lights. The revelation hit him with a strange, cooling sensation, washing over his panic like water on a smoldering fire. It was not a fix—it was a diagnosis, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt a flicker of stable ground beneath his feet. The guilt that had been coiled in his gut for hours loosened, just a fraction, as the realization that he was poisoned, rather than broken beyond repair, solidified in his mind.

"It will pass," Leslie continued, selecting a syringe from her tray and turning to him, her eyes searching his face for his consent. "This sedative will help neutralize the active agents in your bloodstream and bridge the gap while your body clears the rest of the toxins. It will be quiet, Jim. Very quiet."

He nodded, feeling the sudden, overwhelming urge to surrender to the exhaustion that was clawing at his limbs. He leaned back against the table, his spine arching as he let his head fall against the cool, padded headrest. Leslie stepped into his personal space, her hand gently guiding his arm into a better position for the injection. He caught the sharp, crisp scent of alcohol wipes as she cleaned his skin once more, the coolness of the liquid numbing his frantic nerves.

He stared up at the ceiling, seeing light spots dancing and fading, his muscles finally beginning to slacken as the tension rushed out of him in heavy, ragged sighs. He felt the prick of the sedative entering his system, a cold flow that promised a temporary reprieve from the constant noise in his head. His eyelids grew heavy, the internal static of his thoughts slowing to a dull hum, and for the first time since the warehouse, he didn't feel the need to look behind him for shadows that weren't there. Leslie watched him with care, her hand resting firmly on his forearm as he leaned back, waiting for the medication to take hold. Jim closed his eyes, his breathing deepening as he finally began to calm down.

The morning light bleeding through the blinds of the clinic was muted, filtering in thin, dusty slats that failed to pierce the lingering gloom of the room. Jim sat on the edge of the high, padded examination table, his legs dangling slightly, heels catching on the metal rung beneath. The scent of ozone, antiseptic, and something faintly metallic pressed against his senses, keeping his pulse at a brittle, restless pace. His coat was gone, folded somewhere nearby, and his sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, leaving his pale skin exposed to the chilling air of the room.

Leslie Thompkins moved into his blurred field of vision, her movements measured and steady. She stood close enough that he could feel the subtle warmth radiating from her white coat. He felt the soft, practiced touch of her fingers on his chin as she tilted his head back, pulling his eyelids apart. A penlight sparked to life, blooming like a harsh, miniature sun before his pupils. The light hurt, but he forced himself to hold still, his breath hitched in a shallow rhythm that refused to settle.

"Look at the wall, Jim. Don't fight the light," she murmured, her voice a calm anchor that barely kept him from drifting into the fraying edges of his own panic.

He squinted past her, focusing on a crack in the plaster of the far wall, trying to ground himself in the mundane reality of the room. He felt the minute tremor in his hands, which he had braced against the cold vinyl of the table, the surface slick and unyielding beneath his palms. Harley was there too, he knew, though he did not look toward the corner. He could hear the soft scuff of her boots against the linoleum, a rhythmic, tense sound that he felt in his spine rather than saw.

Leslie clicked off the light, her hand lingering for a fleeting second on his shoulder, a brief gesture of professional solidarity that made something tighten in his chest. She moved to the side, and he heard the metallic rattle of instruments on a tray, the clinking of glass vials, and the soft rustle of rubber gloves being snapped into place. Each sound felt unnaturally loud, amplified by the ringing in his ears that had been his constant companion since the warehouse.

"I need to take a blood sample, Jim," she said, her tone devoid of judgment, entirely focused on the mechanics of care. "This will confirm what I suspect is happening to your system."

He watched her prepare the needle, his mind hazy with the residual ghost-images of things that were not there—shadows stretching into elongated, jagged shapes in the corners of his vision. He gripped the edge of the table tighter, his knuckles turning white as he felt the pinch of the needle against the crook of his elbow. He squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp inhale escaping him as the cold, sharp sensation of intrusion broke the surface of his skin.

"Breathe, Jim," Leslie repeated, her voice closer now, steadying him as she adjusted the tube.

He listened to the faint suction of the drawing blood, the steady pulse of his own biology being siphoned off for analysis. It was a strange, distancing sensation, as if the blood being taken was untethered from the man sitting on this table. He looked at Harley from the corner of his eye, seeing the silhouette of her frame hunched near the door, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. She watched with an intensity that felt protective, almost predatory in its vigilance, as if she were guarding the clinic from the ghosts that had hounded him all night.

Leslie stepped away to the workstation, and the ensuing silence was heavy, thick with the weight of things unsaid. Jim remained on the table, feeling thin and exposed, his heart rate finally beginning a slow, agonizing descent from the peak of his terror. He tried to think of his office, the stack of reports on his desk, the taste of lukewarm coffee, any anchor to the world he recognized before it had disintegrated into the nightmare of the past few hours.

"The results confirm the presence of a neurotoxin," Leslie said after a long, agonizing space, her voice low and grave as she walked back toward him. "It is a concentrated form of a fear-inducing agent, Jim. It explains the hallucinations, the tremors, the absolute exhaustion you are experiencing. You are not losing your mind in the way you feared. You are being chemically assaulted."

She looked at him with an expression of profound, quiet empathy, her spectacles reflecting the clinic lights. The revelation hit him with a strange, cooling sensation, washing over his panic like water on a smoldering fire. It was not a fix—it was a diagnosis, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt a flicker of stable ground beneath his feet. The guilt that had been coiled in his gut for hours loosened, just a fraction, as the realization that he was poisoned, rather than broken beyond repair, solidified in his mind.

"It will pass," Leslie continued, selecting a syringe from her tray and turning to him, her eyes searching his face for his consent. "This sedative will help neutralize the active agents in your bloodstream and bridge the gap while your body clears the rest of the toxins. It will be quiet, Jim. Very quiet."

He nodded, feeling the sudden, overwhelming urge to surrender to the exhaustion that was clawing at his limbs. He leaned back against the table, his spine arching as he let his head fall against the cool, padded headrest. Leslie stepped into his personal space, her hand gently guiding his arm into a better position for the injection. He caught the sharp, crisp scent of alcohol wipes as she cleaned his skin once more, the coolness of the liquid numbing his frantic nerves.

He stared up at the ceiling, seeing light spots dancing and fading, his muscles finally beginning to slacken as the tension rushed out of him in heavy, ragged sighs. He felt the prick of the sedative entering his system, a cold flow that promised a temporary reprieve from the constant noise in his head. His eyelids grew heavy, the internal static of his thoughts slowing to a dull hum, and for the first time since the warehouse, he didn't feel the need to look behind him for shadows that weren't there. Leslie watched him with care, her hand resting firmly on his forearm as he leaned back, waiting for the medication to take hold. Jim closed his eyes, his breathing deepening as he finally began to calm down. «The Monster Under the Cowl», part 4. Fanfiction — DC Universe.

Medical Assessment. The Monster Under the Cowl — DC Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

Medical Assessment

Gotham Nights

When Commissioner Jim Gordon is doused with a rogue batch of fear toxin, his world fractures: everyone he trusts becomes a monster, and the Batman himself morphs into a terrifying beast. Lost in paranoia, Gordon's only lifeline is Harley Quinn, who sees this as her chance to escape her past as a punchline. But can Harley navigate Gordon's shattered reality without losing him—or herself—in the process?

The Monster Under the Cowl — Medical Assessment

Parte 4: Medical Assessment