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
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    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
    animate {
      withoutAudio
      withAudio
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      genesis
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      sourceMedia {
        id
        mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      }
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  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
  createdAt
  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 transition from the rain-lashed rooftop of the GCPD into the sub-basement of Wayne Enterprises was a sudden plunge into a different kind of suffocating pressure. Hours had passed since Gordon handed over that cold, encrypted transit card, and the intervening time had been a blur of high-speed transit through the city’s underbelly, moving through tunnels that felt more like the intestines of a beast than urban infrastructure. Now, standing at the threshold of the laboratory, the humidity of the night was replaced by a sterile, ozone-heavy chill that clung to the skin like a shroud. Batman stepped over the threshold first, his presence filling the vacuum of the room even before he made a sound; I followed close behind, my fingers absently tracing the textured, worn wood of my mallet, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of my boots on the polished floor acting as a metronome for my scattered thoughts.

Dr. Kirk Langstrom stood hunched over a bank of monitors that cast flickering, sickly green light onto his gaunt, sweat-slicked face. He was drowning in data, his fingers flying across a haptic keyboard with a frantic, twitching energy that betrayed his absolute terror. The room was a cacophony of quiet: the high-pitched whine of cooling fans, the distant, rhythmic clicking of server relays, and the low, heavy breathing of the man currently trying to code his way out of an existential crisis. My eyes darted across the workspace, taking in the scattered glass shards of discarded beakers and the dense, industrial smell of chemicals—a sharp, metallic sting that made the back of my throat itch. I didn't need to look at Batman to know he was already scanning the room for exits, traps, or points of leverage; I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, a cold, focused intent that made the air between us vibrate.

"Langstrom," Batman said. The word fell into the room like a dead weight, stripping away the illusion of sanctuary the scientist had built for himself.

Kirk let out a choked, wet gasp, his shoulders rising toward his ears as he froze in place. He didn't turn around immediately, his spine rigid, his knuckles white where he clutched the edge of the desk. When he finally pivoted in his ergonomic chair, his glasses slid precariously down the bridge of his nose, and I caught a glimpse of eyes that looked like shattered glass—dilated, bloodshot, and frantic. The man was a wreck, a hollowed-out vessel of intellect now terrified by the very things he had created. I leaned my weight against a piece of server scaffolding, letting my head loll back against the cold, unyielding metal, watching him through the gaps in the overhead wiring. My skin felt cold, my heart hammering a rhythm against my ribs that seemed far too loud for the oppressive silence of the lab.

"I knew you would come," Langstrom whispered, his voice cracking, a pathetic, high-pitched tremor that betrayed every bit of his arrogance. "I told her. I told them this would happen, that the paper trail wouldn't just vanish because she willed it, but they didn't—they couldn't comprehend the risk."

Batman didn't move toward him, yet the distance between them vanished in an instant. He reached into his utility belt, producing the glass vial of the blood-silver, the iridescent, pulsating liquid inside catching the harsh light of the monitors like a trapped galaxy. He set it on the desk between them, the crystal clinking against the hard surface of the workstation with a sound that felt dangerously like a gavel striking a block. Langstrom stared down at the vial, his lips moving soundlessly as if he were reciting a prayer or a curse. I felt a surge of nausea, the sight of that silver sludge triggering a memory of how it looked in the light of the morgue, how it shimmered even as it destroyed the man I had known.

"Explain it," Batman demanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the immediate vicinity. "The synthesis, the reactive properties, the origin. Everything."

Langstrom reached out, his hand trembling so violently that he nearly knocked the vial over before he could pull it into the containment harness of his console. He began to work, inputting sequences of commands, his eyes darting across the flickering screens that displayed jagged, incomprehensible graphs of molecular degradation. Every time the screen updated, his breath hitched, a series of short, shallow rasps that sounded like the rattling of dry leaves. I watched his reflection in a dark screen nearby; he looked small, insignificant, a tiny cog being ground down by invisible forces he had tried and failed to control. The intensity of his focus was frightening, a desperate, last-ditch effort to prove he was still a master of his own craft, even as he was being consumed by it.

"It’s not just a toxin, Batman," Langstrom finally spoke, his eyes never leaving the data stream that pulsed like a heartbeat on the main terminal. "It is a bridge, a synthetic catalyst meant to overwrite cellular decay with metallic reinforcement. It was designated as Project Blood-Silver. It was never meant to be a weapon in the conventional sense. It was meant to make subjects... persistent. Durable beyond any biological limit. But the toxicity, the volatility of the silver-blood interaction—it turned the process into a corrosive, runaway structural failure. It breaks down the host from the inside out, turning the internal organs into a slush of organic and metallic debris. It’s effective, it’s absolute, and it was entirely, meticulously forced upon me."

I shifted, my boots scuffing against the floor, the sound echoing unnaturally in the vast, tomb-like space. "Forced?" I asked, my voice cutting through the hum of the cooling systems. "You’re a genius, Doc. Last I checked, geniuses are supposed to have, like, a backbone or something. Who stuck the gun to your head?"

Langstrom looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw a flash of raw, cynical resentment in his tired, watery gaze. "You speak of backbones, Quinn?" he sneered, though the words lacked any real conviction. "You, who spent years dancing for a madman in a suit of purple rags? Don't lecture me on moral failure. I was coerced by Amanda Waller. She didn't use a gun—she used my life, my reputation, my entire scientific legacy as collateral. She brought me the base samples from deep-site archeological recovery, and she made it clear: find a way to stabilize that material, to make it deployable, or she would erase my existence from every database on this planet. She had monitors, she had agents, she had the very air in this lab tapped for telemetry. I was never a free agent. I was just the pen she used to write a suicide note for an entire division of people."

A cold, quiet rage began to simmer in the pit of my stomach, a familiar, dark heat that reminded me exactly why I hated the quiet, clinical people who sat in high offices and pulled strings. Everything was a game to them, a board where they moved pawns until they were sacrificed, and here we were, standing in the wreckage of one of her experiments. I looked over at Batman, wondering if he felt the same, but his expression was a mask of cold, analytical stone. He was looking at the screen, at the specific string of digits that linked the batch number of the metallic substance to the encrypted transmission tags used by A.R.G.U.S. protocols. The silence in the room became heavy, a physical weight that pressed against my lungs, making each breath feel thin and dry.

"The link is here," Langstrom whispered, his confidence completely shattered as he realized he had finally vocalized the treason that would condemn him. "The distribution, the chain of custody, the orders signed by her own digital thumbprint. It’s all here. Every corrupted file, every failed attempt that she nonetheless ordered to be shipped into the field. I kept it all, a black box for when the world finally stopped ignoring the bodies piling up in the morgue."

He navigated a menu with a final, jerky motion of his hand, his fingers hesitating for a heartbeat over the execution key. He looked at us—at the Batman, the ultimate symbol of a code he had abandoned, and then at me, the chaotic variable in his neat, logical world. His face was pale, almost translucent in the artificial light, his skin stretched tight over the sharp, angular bone structure of his face. He seemed to shrink into his white lab coat, becoming a shriveled thing, defeated, hollow, and utterly terrified. He clicked a command, the screen flashing a bright, warning red before settling into a steady, pulsing amber pattern that indicated an offload process. A small, black drive port on the side of his console popped open with a faint, metallic click, revealing the data storage unit.

"Take it," Langstrom said, his voice a fragile thread that threatened to snap. "Take it and go. If she finds out I’ve handed this over, she won’t just ruin me. She’ll make me disappear into a hole so deep the sun will never find me. You are my only insurance policy now, and that is a terrifying realization."

Batman reached out, his gauntleted hand moving with a speed that was almost imperceptible. He didn't hesitate, his fingers closing around the cold, black plastic of the drive as if it were a fragile bird. He pulled it from the port, the action efficient and clinical, a seamless transfer of years of guilt and carnage onto a few grams of circuitry. He held the drive up for a moment, the light glinting off the dark surface as he checked the encryption light to ensure the download was stable and accurate. I felt a strange, cold pull in my gut, a recognition that the game had just shifted in ways we couldn't yet calculate; this wasn't just a win, it was an opening of a door that once opened, could never be shut again. I watched as he tucked the drive into a specialized compartment on his utility belt, the click of the latch sounding like the final lock turning on a vault door.

Langstrom sagged further into his chair, his head dropping into his hands, his fingers knotting into the graying hair at his temples. He was finished. He was a spent force, a man who had traded his conscience for fear and had lost both in the end. I wanted to say something—some sharp, cutting remark to puncture the gravity of the moment—but the look on Batman's face stopped me. He wasn't thinking about the past; he was already calculating the next move, the weight of the data in his belt serving as a compass for the fight that was to come. I stepped away from the server rack, my boots leaving small, dust-filled indentations on the floor, and moved toward the exit, my eyes still cast toward the huddled, miserable scientist. The air, which had seemed so stale before, now felt charged with the electricity of an approaching storm, the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. Batman turned, his cape billowing like a shadow, and for a fleeting second, the two of us stood in the harsh, pitiless glare of the laboratory monitors, two predators walking away from the cooling corpse of a secret that had claimed too many lives, the mission hanging in the silence between us.

The transition from the rain-lashed rooftop of the GCPD into the sub-basement of Wayne Enterprises was a sudden plunge into a different kind of suffocating pressure. Hours had passed since Gordon handed over that cold, encrypted transit card, and the intervening time had been a blur of high-speed transit through the city’s underbelly, moving through tunnels that felt more like the intestines of a beast than urban infrastructure. Now, standing at the threshold of the laboratory, the humidity of the night was replaced by a sterile, ozone-heavy chill that clung to the skin like a shroud. Batman stepped over the threshold first, his presence filling the vacuum of the room even before he made a sound; I followed close behind, my fingers absently tracing the textured, worn wood of my mallet, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of my boots on the polished floor acting as a metronome for my scattered thoughts.

Dr. Kirk Langstrom stood hunched over a bank of monitors that cast flickering, sickly green light onto his gaunt, sweat-slicked face. He was drowning in data, his fingers flying across a haptic keyboard with a frantic, twitching energy that betrayed his absolute terror. The room was a cacophony of quiet: the high-pitched whine of cooling fans, the distant, rhythmic clicking of server relays, and the low, heavy breathing of the man currently trying to code his way out of an existential crisis. My eyes darted across the workspace, taking in the scattered glass shards of discarded beakers and the dense, industrial smell of chemicals—a sharp, metallic sting that made the back of my throat itch. I didn't need to look at Batman to know he was already scanning the room for exits, traps, or points of leverage; I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, a cold, focused intent that made the air between us vibrate.

"Langstrom," Batman said. The word fell into the room like a dead weight, stripping away the illusion of sanctuary the scientist had built for himself.

Kirk let out a choked, wet gasp, his shoulders rising toward his ears as he froze in place. He didn't turn around immediately, his spine rigid, his knuckles white where he clutched the edge of the desk. When he finally pivoted in his ergonomic chair, his glasses slid precariously down the bridge of his nose, and I caught a glimpse of eyes that looked like shattered glass—dilated, bloodshot, and frantic. The man was a wreck, a hollowed-out vessel of intellect now terrified by the very things he had created. I leaned my weight against a piece of server scaffolding, letting my head loll back against the cold, unyielding metal, watching him through the gaps in the overhead wiring. My skin felt cold, my heart hammering a rhythm against my ribs that seemed far too loud for the oppressive silence of the lab.

"I knew you would come," Langstrom whispered, his voice cracking, a pathetic, high-pitched tremor that betrayed every bit of his arrogance. "I told her. I told them this would happen, that the paper trail wouldn't just vanish because she willed it, but they didn't—they couldn't comprehend the risk."

Batman didn't move toward him, yet the distance between them vanished in an instant. He reached into his utility belt, producing the glass vial of the blood-silver, the iridescent, pulsating liquid inside catching the harsh light of the monitors like a trapped galaxy. He set it on the desk between them, the crystal clinking against the hard surface of the workstation with a sound that felt dangerously like a gavel striking a block. Langstrom stared down at the vial, his lips moving soundlessly as if he were reciting a prayer or a curse. I felt a surge of nausea, the sight of that silver sludge triggering a memory of how it looked in the light of the morgue, how it shimmered even as it destroyed the man I had known.

"Explain it," Batman demanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the immediate vicinity. "The synthesis, the reactive properties, the origin. Everything."

Langstrom reached out, his hand trembling so violently that he nearly knocked the vial over before he could pull it into the containment harness of his console. He began to work, inputting sequences of commands, his eyes darting across the flickering screens that displayed jagged, incomprehensible graphs of molecular degradation. Every time the screen updated, his breath hitched, a series of short, shallow rasps that sounded like the rattling of dry leaves. I watched his reflection in a dark screen nearby; he looked small, insignificant, a tiny cog being ground down by invisible forces he had tried and failed to control. The intensity of his focus was frightening, a desperate, last-ditch effort to prove he was still a master of his own craft, even as he was being consumed by it.

"It’s not just a toxin, Batman," Langstrom finally spoke, his eyes never leaving the data stream that pulsed like a heartbeat on the main terminal. "It is a bridge, a synthetic catalyst meant to overwrite cellular decay with metallic reinforcement. It was designated as Project Blood-Silver. It was never meant to be a weapon in the conventional sense. It was meant to make subjects... persistent. Durable beyond any biological limit. But the toxicity, the volatility of the silver-blood interaction—it turned the process into a corrosive, runaway structural failure. It breaks down the host from the inside out, turning the internal organs into a slush of organic and metallic debris. It’s effective, it’s absolute, and it was entirely, meticulously forced upon me."

I shifted, my boots scuffing against the floor, the sound echoing unnaturally in the vast, tomb-like space. "Forced?" I asked, my voice cutting through the hum of the cooling systems. "You’re a genius, Doc. Last I checked, geniuses are supposed to have, like, a backbone or something. Who stuck the gun to your head?"

Langstrom looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw a flash of raw, cynical resentment in his tired, watery gaze. "You speak of backbones, Quinn?" he sneered, though the words lacked any real conviction. "You, who spent years dancing for a madman in a suit of purple rags? Don't lecture me on moral failure. I was coerced by Amanda Waller. She didn't use a gun—she used my life, my reputation, my entire scientific legacy as collateral. She brought me the base samples from deep-site archeological recovery, and she made it clear: find a way to stabilize that material, to make it deployable, or she would erase my existence from every database on this planet. She had monitors, she had agents, she had the very air in this lab tapped for telemetry. I was never a free agent. I was just the pen she used to write a suicide note for an entire division of people."

A cold, quiet rage began to simmer in the pit of my stomach, a familiar, dark heat that reminded me exactly why I hated the quiet, clinical people who sat in high offices and pulled strings. Everything was a game to them, a board where they moved pawns until they were sacrificed, and here we were, standing in the wreckage of one of her experiments. I looked over at Batman, wondering if he felt the same, but his expression was a mask of cold, analytical stone. He was looking at the screen, at the specific string of digits that linked the batch number of the metallic substance to the encrypted transmission tags used by A.R.G.U.S. protocols. The silence in the room became heavy, a physical weight that pressed against my lungs, making each breath feel thin and dry.

"The link is here," Langstrom whispered, his confidence completely shattered as he realized he had finally vocalized the treason that would condemn him. "The distribution, the chain of custody, the orders signed by her own digital thumbprint. It’s all here. Every corrupted file, every failed attempt that she nonetheless ordered to be shipped into the field. I kept it all, a black box for when the world finally stopped ignoring the bodies piling up in the morgue."

He navigated a menu with a final, jerky motion of his hand, his fingers hesitating for a heartbeat over the execution key. He looked at us—at the Batman, the ultimate symbol of a code he had abandoned, and then at me, the chaotic variable in his neat, logical world. His face was pale, almost translucent in the artificial light, his skin stretched tight over the sharp, angular bone structure of his face. He seemed to shrink into his white lab coat, becoming a shriveled thing, defeated, hollow, and utterly terrified. He clicked a command, the screen flashing a bright, warning red before settling into a steady, pulsing amber pattern that indicated an offload process. A small, black drive port on the side of his console popped open with a faint, metallic click, revealing the data storage unit.

"Take it," Langstrom said, his voice a fragile thread that threatened to snap. "Take it and go. If she finds out I’ve handed this over, she won’t just ruin me. She’ll make me disappear into a hole so deep the sun will never find me. You are my only insurance policy now, and that is a terrifying realization."

Batman reached out, his gauntleted hand moving with a speed that was almost imperceptible. He didn't hesitate, his fingers closing around the cold, black plastic of the drive as if it were a fragile bird. He pulled it from the port, the action efficient and clinical, a seamless transfer of years of guilt and carnage onto a few grams of circuitry. He held the drive up for a moment, the light glinting off the dark surface as he checked the encryption light to ensure the download was stable and accurate. I felt a strange, cold pull in my gut, a recognition that the game had just shifted in ways we couldn't yet calculate; this wasn't just a win, it was an opening of a door that once opened, could never be shut again. I watched as he tucked the drive into a specialized compartment on his utility belt, the click of the latch sounding like the final lock turning on a vault door.

Langstrom sagged further into his chair, his head dropping into his hands, his fingers knotting into the graying hair at his temples. He was finished. He was a spent force, a man who had traded his conscience for fear and had lost both in the end. I wanted to say something—some sharp, cutting remark to puncture the gravity of the moment—but the look on Batman's face stopped me. He wasn't thinking about the past; he was already calculating the next move, the weight of the data in his belt serving as a compass for the fight that was to come. I stepped away from the server rack, my boots leaving small, dust-filled indentations on the floor, and moved toward the exit, my eyes still cast toward the huddled, miserable scientist. The air, which had seemed so stale before, now felt charged with the electricity of an approaching storm, the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. Batman turned, his cape billowing like a shadow, and for a fleeting second, the two of us stood in the harsh, pitiless glare of the laboratory monitors, two predators walking away from the cooling corpse of a secret that had claimed too many lives, the mission hanging in the silence between us. «The History Eater», part 4. Fanfiction — DC Universe.

Langstrom's Lab. The History Eater — DC Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

Langstrom's Lab

Gotham Nights

When the Joker is found dead in Arkham Asylum, Batman must forge an uneasy alliance with Harley Quinn to investigate. Their search leads them to a secret experiment funded by Amanda Waller — a Man-Bat project that has birthed a creature capable of erasing Gotham's history itself. As landmarks vanish and memories fade, the duo races against time to stop the entity before the city loses everything that defines it. Can they uncover the truth before Gotham becomes a blank slate?

The History Eater — Langstrom's Lab

Parte 4: Langstrom's Lab