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 rain had settled into a steady drizzle by the time Harvey Bullock pulled his sedan up to the main gate of Arkham Asylum. The tires crunched on wet gravel as he killed the engine, and the headlights died, plunging the entrance into a dim gloom lit only by a single security lamp mounted high on the gatepost. The building beyond was a dark mass, its Gothic spires lost in the low clouds, its windows black or faintly lit from within. He sat for a moment, listening to the rain tap on the roof, watching his breath fog the windshield.

He'd been here before. Too many times. Each visit left a film on his skin, a residue of despair and madness that never quite washed off. He pulled the collar of his trench coat up, grabbed the thin case file from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the cold. The mist clung to him immediately, beading on his hat and the shoulders of his coat. He walked to the gate, his worn leather shoes squelching on the wet path.

The gate was modern, chain-link with razor wire gleaming dully in the security light. A speaker box was mounted on a post next to a keypad. He pressed the button and waited. A crackle, then a gruff voice: "Yeah?"

"Detective Bullock, GCPD. I'm here about the break-in."

A pause. The voice returned, thick with a Gotham accent that sounded like gravel. "I'll be out."

The speaker clicked off. Bullock stepped back, lit a cigarette, cupping the flame against the damp. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl into the mist. The minutes stretched. He was about to press the button again when he heard footsteps on the other side of the gate.

A bulky figure emerged from the shadows near the main entrance, moving with the deliberate tread of a man who had walked these grounds for decades. He wore a faded security uniform, the badge polished but the fabric worn at the elbows. A flashlight swung from a loop on his belt, and a ring of keys clinked with each step. His face was broad, pockmarked, with a thick neck that strained the collar. A permanent scowl was etched into his features.

Arthur Corrigan. Bullock recognized the name from the file—night shift supervisor, twenty-three years at Arkham.

Corrigan stopped at the gate, hands on his hips, studying Bullock with open suspicion. He looked him up and down—the rumpled coat, the loosened tie, the tired eyes. Then he grunted and pulled a key from the ring.

"Detective," he said, the word flat, not quite a greeting.

"Corrigan." Bullock dropped the cigarette, ground it out. "You got a file for me?"

He unlocked a pedestrian gate and held it open. Bullock stepped through, and the gate clicked shut behind him with a metallic finality. The rain seemed to intensify once he was inside the grounds, as if the asylum exerted its own weather.

They walked in silence across the courtyard. The main building rose before them, a sprawling monstrosity of dark stone and narrow windows. The lower windows were barred; the upper ones were dark, broken in places. A single light burned in a window on the third floor, behind heavy curtains.

Corrigan led him to a side door, not the main entrance, and unlocked it with another key. The door swung inward, revealing a dim corridor with peeling green paint and a floor of worn linoleum. The air that spilled out was stale and cold, carrying a faint smell of antiseptic and something else—something sour and metallic, old.

Bullock stepped inside. The door clicked shut, muffling the sound of rain. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with closed doors, each with a small barred window. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering weakly, casting a pale light that seemed to drain color from everything.

"This way," Corrigan said, and started walking.

Bullock followed, his footsteps echoing. They passed a nurses' station that was empty, the counter cluttered with paperwork and an old coffee mug. A radio played softly from somewhere, the tinny sound of a news broadcast.

"Quietest nights are the worst," Corrigan replied without turning. "Means they're all thinking."

They turned a corner and came to a set of double doors with frosted glass, marked "Administration." Corrigan pushed through, and they entered a small office. A desk sat in the middle, cluttered with papers, a computer monitor dark, and a phone. A filing cabinet stood against the wall, and a bulletin board was covered with memos and shift schedules.

Corrigan went to the desk and picked up a manila folder, thinner than the one Bullock already had. He handed it over without ceremony.

"Three nights in a row," Corrigan said. "Same wing. The old one. The one they closed after the—after the trouble."

Bullock opened the folder. Inside were a few incident reports, all brief, all saying the same thing: a motion sensor trip, a door found ajar, no sign of forced entry. The last report, from the night before, had a note about a message scrawled on the wall.

"The note," Bullock said. "The one that got this whole thing moving. It's not in here."

"I don't have it. The suit from the office took it—the head of security or something. Said it needed to go to the Commissioner."

Bullock grunted. He already knew that. He'd seen the photo in Gordon's office. A single word, in jagged letters, written in what looked like grease pencil. "Bane."

"Tell me about the break-ins," he said, closing the folder. "From the beginning."

Corrigan shifted, crossing his thick arms. "First night, the alarm goes off around two a.m. The motion sensor in the old wing—the part that's sealed off. I went down there myself, checked every door. Nothing was open. Nothing was moved. But the sensor said there was something."

"Could be. But I've been here long enough to know the difference between a glitch and a ghost."

Bullock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Second night, same thing. But this time, when I checked the door that leads to the old wing, it was unlocked. I know I locked it. I always lock it. But it was open just a crack."

"I reported it, yeah. Maintenance came and checked the lock, said it was fine. I locked it again myself. Last night, the alarm goes off again. I go down there, and the door's open again. And this time, there's writing on the wall inside, right by the door. That word. That damn word."

Corrigan's face had grown paler as he spoke. His hands were trembling slightly, though he tried to hide it by gripping his belt.

"You ever seen anything like that before?" Bullock asked.

"Seen a lot of things in this place, Detective. Things that don't make sense. But this—" He shook his head. "This feels different. Like someone's playing games."

Corrigan's eyes met his. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Bullock slipped the folder into his coat pocket. "I need to see the wing."

Corrigan's jaw tightened. He looked away, at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but Bullock. "I figured you'd say that."

"I have a problem with that wing," Corrigan said, his voice dropping. "That place—it's not right. They closed it for a reason. Not just because the budget ran out, not because the patients got transferred. Because things happened there. Things that make a man question what he believes."

"I don't have the luxury of belief, Corrigan. I just have a case."

Corrigan let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah. That's what the last one said, too."

But Corrigan didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the office, leaving Bullock to follow.

They retraced their steps through the corridors, but now they took a different turn, heading deeper into the building. The halls grew narrower, the lights dimmer. The paint here was flaking, and the linoleum was cracked. They passed a set of doors with heavy metal bars across them, and then another.

"I've worked here for twenty-three years," Corrigan said, his voice low. "I've seen the worst of 'em: the Joker, Scarecrow, Killer Croc, all of 'em. But that wing—the old one—it's got a history. Before they built the high-security wards, that's where they kept the ones they couldn't control. The ones who did things that don't get written down."

"Things that made the doctors quit. Things that made orderlies walk out in the middle of their shifts. There's a reason they sealed it off."

They reached a heavy fire door, painted a dull red, with a sign that read: "ABANDONED WING - NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS." A new padlock hung on the latch, but the lock was undone, the chain hanging loose.

"That lock was on tight last night," Corrigan said. "I checked it myself after I called it in."

Bullock stepped closer. The chain was intact; the lock itself looked undamaged. He ran a gloved hand over it. "No signs of picking. No cuts."

Bullock pushed the door. It swung open with a groan, revealing a dark corridor beyond. The air that came out was different—colder, stale, with a smell of mold and dust and something else. Something metallic, like old blood.

He reached inside the door and found a light switch. He flicked it. A single bulb flickered to life in the corridor, casting long shadows. The walls were bare brick, some of them water-stained, the floor concrete. A long stretch of hallway disappeared into darkness, with doors on either side, all closed.

He took a step forward, then stopped. Corrigan hadn't moved.

Corrigan shook his head. "No. I don't go in there. Not after what I saw."

"I don't talk about it." He pulled a heavy flashlight from his belt and handed it to Bullock. "You'll need this. The lights only go so far."

Bullock took it, clicked it on. The beam cut a sharp cone into the dark, illuminating a patch of gritty floor. "I need you to wait here. If I'm not back in an hour, you call the precinct. Got it?"

Corrigan nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the darkness beyond Bullock. "You should be careful, Detective. That place—it's got a way of getting inside your head."

Bullock grunted. "Not my first asylum, Corrigan."

"Maybe not. But it's your first time in this one."

Bullock turned and faced the corridor. The light from the bare bulb behind him cast his shadow long on the wall. He took a breath, then stepped forward. The door groaned as it swung partially shut behind him, but it didn't close all the way. He heard Corrigan's footsteps retreating, then silence.

And now he stood alone at the entrance to the abandoned wing, flashlight in hand. The beam trembled slightly as he steadied his grip. The corridor stretched before him, dark and waiting. He knew he had to go in, but for a moment, he just stood there, listening to the rain outside and the beating of his own heart.

Then he moved forward, and the darkness swallowed him.

The rain had settled into a steady drizzle by the time Harvey Bullock pulled his sedan up to the main gate of Arkham Asylum. The tires crunched on wet gravel as he killed the engine, and the headlights died, plunging the entrance into a dim gloom lit only by a single security lamp mounted high on the gatepost. The building beyond was a dark mass, its Gothic spires lost in the low clouds, its windows black or faintly lit from within. He sat for a moment, listening to the rain tap on the roof, watching his breath fog the windshield.

He'd been here before. Too many times. Each visit left a film on his skin, a residue of despair and madness that never quite washed off. He pulled the collar of his trench coat up, grabbed the thin case file from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the cold. The mist clung to him immediately, beading on his hat and the shoulders of his coat. He walked to the gate, his worn leather shoes squelching on the wet path.

The gate was modern, chain-link with razor wire gleaming dully in the security light. A speaker box was mounted on a post next to a keypad. He pressed the button and waited. A crackle, then a gruff voice: "Yeah?"

"Detective Bullock, GCPD. I'm here about the break-in."

A pause. The voice returned, thick with a Gotham accent that sounded like gravel. "I'll be out."

The speaker clicked off. Bullock stepped back, lit a cigarette, cupping the flame against the damp. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl into the mist. The minutes stretched. He was about to press the button again when he heard footsteps on the other side of the gate.

A bulky figure emerged from the shadows near the main entrance, moving with the deliberate tread of a man who had walked these grounds for decades. He wore a faded security uniform, the badge polished but the fabric worn at the elbows. A flashlight swung from a loop on his belt, and a ring of keys clinked with each step. His face was broad, pockmarked, with a thick neck that strained the collar. A permanent scowl was etched into his features.

Arthur Corrigan. Bullock recognized the name from the file—night shift supervisor, twenty-three years at Arkham.

Corrigan stopped at the gate, hands on his hips, studying Bullock with open suspicion. He looked him up and down—the rumpled coat, the loosened tie, the tired eyes. Then he grunted and pulled a key from the ring.

"Detective," he said, the word flat, not quite a greeting.

"Corrigan." Bullock dropped the cigarette, ground it out. "You got a file for me?"

"File's inside. Follow me."

He unlocked a pedestrian gate and held it open. Bullock stepped through, and the gate clicked shut behind him with a metallic finality. The rain seemed to intensify once he was inside the grounds, as if the asylum exerted its own weather.

They walked in silence across the courtyard. The main building rose before them, a sprawling monstrosity of dark stone and narrow windows. The lower windows were barred; the upper ones were dark, broken in places. A single light burned in a window on the third floor, behind heavy curtains.

Corrigan led him to a side door, not the main entrance, and unlocked it with another key. The door swung inward, revealing a dim corridor with peeling green paint and a floor of worn linoleum. The air that spilled out was stale and cold, carrying a faint smell of antiseptic and something else—something sour and metallic, old.

Bullock stepped inside. The door clicked shut, muffling the sound of rain. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with closed doors, each with a small barred window. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering weakly, casting a pale light that seemed to drain color from everything.

"This way," Corrigan said, and started walking.

Bullock followed, his footsteps echoing. They passed a nurses' station that was empty, the counter cluttered with paperwork and an old coffee mug. A radio played softly from somewhere, the tinny sound of a news broadcast.

"Quiet tonight," Bullock said.

"Quietest nights are the worst," Corrigan replied without turning. "Means they're all thinking."

They turned a corner and came to a set of double doors with frosted glass, marked "Administration." Corrigan pushed through, and they entered a small office. A desk sat in the middle, cluttered with papers, a computer monitor dark, and a phone. A filing cabinet stood against the wall, and a bulletin board was covered with memos and shift schedules.

Corrigan went to the desk and picked up a manila folder, thinner than the one Bullock already had. He handed it over without ceremony.

"Three nights in a row," Corrigan said. "Same wing. The old one. The one they closed after the—after the trouble."

Bullock opened the folder. Inside were a few incident reports, all brief, all saying the same thing: a motion sensor trip, a door found ajar, no sign of forced entry. The last report, from the night before, had a note about a message scrawled on the wall.

"The note," Bullock said. "The one that got this whole thing moving. It's not in here."

"I don't have it. The suit from the office took it—the head of security or something. Said it needed to go to the Commissioner."

Bullock grunted. He already knew that. He'd seen the photo in Gordon's office. A single word, in jagged letters, written in what looked like grease pencil. "Bane."

"Tell me about the break-ins," he said, closing the folder. "From the beginning."

Corrigan shifted, crossing his thick arms. "First night, the alarm goes off around two a.m. The motion sensor in the old wing—the part that's sealed off. I went down there myself, checked every door. Nothing was open. Nothing was moved. But the sensor said there was something."

"Could be a malfunction."

"Could be. But I've been here long enough to know the difference between a glitch and a ghost."

Bullock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Second night, same thing. But this time, when I checked the door that leads to the old wing, it was unlocked. I know I locked it. I always lock it. But it was open just a crack."

"Did you call it in?"

"I reported it, yeah. Maintenance came and checked the lock, said it was fine. I locked it again myself. Last night, the alarm goes off again. I go down there, and the door's open again. And this time, there's writing on the wall inside, right by the door. That word. That damn word."

Corrigan's face had grown paler as he spoke. His hands were trembling slightly, though he tried to hide it by gripping his belt.

"You ever seen anything like that before?" Bullock asked.

"Seen a lot of things in this place, Detective. Things that don't make sense. But this—" He shook his head. "This feels different. Like someone's playing games."

"Or someone's trying to send a message."

Corrigan's eyes met his. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Bullock slipped the folder into his coat pocket. "I need to see the wing."

Corrigan's jaw tightened. He looked away, at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but Bullock. "I figured you'd say that."

"You have a problem with that?"

"I have a problem with that wing," Corrigan said, his voice dropping. "That place—it's not right. They closed it for a reason. Not just because the budget ran out, not because the patients got transferred. Because things happened there. Things that make a man question what he believes."

"I don't have the luxury of belief, Corrigan. I just have a case."

Corrigan let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah. That's what the last one said, too."

"What last one?"

But Corrigan didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the office, leaving Bullock to follow.

They retraced their steps through the corridors, but now they took a different turn, heading deeper into the building. The halls grew narrower, the lights dimmer. The paint here was flaking, and the linoleum was cracked. They passed a set of doors with heavy metal bars across them, and then another.

"I've worked here for twenty-three years," Corrigan said, his voice low. "I've seen the worst of 'em: the Joker, Scarecrow, Killer Croc, all of 'em. But that wing—the old one—it's got a history. Before they built the high-security wards, that's where they kept the ones they couldn't control. The ones who did things that don't get written down."

"What kind of things?"

"Things that made the doctors quit. Things that made orderlies walk out in the middle of their shifts. There's a reason they sealed it off."

They reached a heavy fire door, painted a dull red, with a sign that read: "ABANDONED WING - NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS." A new padlock hung on the latch, but the lock was undone, the chain hanging loose.

"That lock was on tight last night," Corrigan said. "I checked it myself after I called it in."

Bullock stepped closer. The chain was intact; the lock itself looked undamaged. He ran a gloved hand over it. "No signs of picking. No cuts."

"Like I said. No forced entry."

Bullock pushed the door. It swung open with a groan, revealing a dark corridor beyond. The air that came out was different—colder, stale, with a smell of mold and dust and something else. Something metallic, like old blood.

He reached inside the door and found a light switch. He flicked it. A single bulb flickered to life in the corridor, casting long shadows. The walls were bare brick, some of them water-stained, the floor concrete. A long stretch of hallway disappeared into darkness, with doors on either side, all closed.

He took a step forward, then stopped. Corrigan hadn't moved.

"You coming?" Bullock asked.

Corrigan shook his head. "No. I don't go in there. Not after what I saw."

"What did you see?"

"I don't talk about it." He pulled a heavy flashlight from his belt and handed it to Bullock. "You'll need this. The lights only go so far."

Bullock took it, clicked it on. The beam cut a sharp cone into the dark, illuminating a patch of gritty floor. "I need you to wait here. If I'm not back in an hour, you call the precinct. Got it?"

Corrigan nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the darkness beyond Bullock. "You should be careful, Detective. That place—it's got a way of getting inside your head."

Bullock grunted. "Not my first asylum, Corrigan."

"Maybe not. But it's your first time in this one."

Bullock turned and faced the corridor. The light from the bare bulb behind him cast his shadow long on the wall. He took a breath, then stepped forward. The door groaned as it swung partially shut behind him, but it didn't close all the way. He heard Corrigan's footsteps retreating, then silence.

And now he stood alone at the entrance to the abandoned wing, flashlight in hand. The beam trembled slightly as he steadied his grip. The corridor stretched before him, dark and waiting. He knew he had to go in, but for a moment, he just stood there, listening to the rain outside and the beating of his own heart.

Then he moved forward, and the darkness swallowed him. «For Gotham's Own Good», part 2. Fanfiction — DC Universe.

Arrival at Arkham. For Gotham's Own Good — DC Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

Arrival at Arkham

Gotham Nights

A string of break-ins targets Arkham Asylum's sealed corridors. Detective Harvey Bullock follows the trail to a derelict room where he finds Dr. Jeremiah Arkham bound to a chair, a Man-Bat serum injector nearby, and a note signed by Bane: 'For Gotham's own good.' With the city's most dangerous minds as pawns, Bullock must unravel Bane's twisted scheme before the serum turns its first victim—and before Gotham pays the price for a madman's idea of salvation.

For Gotham's Own Good — Arrival at Arkham

Parte 2: Arrival at Arkham