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
    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
      }
    }
  }
  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
  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 not ceased since the news from Arkham, washing the filth of Gotham closer to the gutters, turning the rooftop concrete into a dark, slick mirror that reflected only the harsh, oscillating beam of the Bat-Signal. My coat was heavy with the moisture, a chill seeping through the wool into my shoulders as I reached the final landing of the stairs. I had climbed them with a sense of dread that resided deep in my chest, a physical weight that made my lungs labor with every breath. I heard the muffled clatter of boots before I saw them. Stepping out onto the roof, the wind whipped the rain sharply against my face, cooling the sweat that had gathered at my hairline.

The shadows moved. Batman stood near the edge, his silhouette stark and daunting against the swirling grey backdrop of the night sky, his cape heavy and soaked. Beside him, leaning against the metal railing with a restless, oscillating energy that seemed entirely out of place in the grim silence, was Harley Quinn. Seeing her there, dressed in her signature garb, hit me like a physical blow. The last place I expected to find a known accomplice of the man who had tormented this city for decades was here, under the watchful gaze of the Dark Knight. I felt my hand drop reflexively to the grip of my holster, an instinctual, protective measure rather than an aggressive one, though the tension flared in my wrists.

I stepped forward, the sound of my boots on the wet gravel sharp and distinctive. The Batman did not turn immediately. His profile remained hard, his gaze fixed on the glowing aperture of the signal. When he finally shifted, the movement was slow and calculated, a predatory grace that never ceased to unsettle me even after all these years. Quinn straightened as well, her posture shifting from a nonchalant lean to something tenser, more observant. Her eyes moved over me, tracking, cataloging, before settling on my face with a disconcerting intensity that made me want to shield my eyes from her gaze.

"Gordon," he said, his voice as low and resonant as grindstone on iron. The sound cut through the howl of the wind effortlessly. He did not waste breath on formalities. The atmosphere on the roof was already thick with the unspoken, a suffocating pressure that tightened the skin across my neck. I reached the edge, my boots sliding slightly on the slick surface, and braced my hands against the rusted railing. I looked past him, then focused on his sharp, unmoving form.

"Batman. I received the signal," I started, my voice strained from the cold and the sheer exhaustion of the shifting political landscape of the precinct. I shifted my weight, trying to find a footing that didn't feel like I was slipping into an abyss. "You said it was urgent. You didn't mention bringing guests."

I allowed my gaze to flicker toward Quinn. She shifted her stance, a flicker of something raw and deeply pained crossing her features before she masked it with a forced, manic brightness that sat poorly on her face. Her breathing was uneven, a choppy, shallow intake that suggested she was holding a reservoir of nervous rage or grief tightly in check. I could see the way her fingers hooked into the fabric of her bodysuit, the knuckles white from the pressure. She was not a comfortable participant here, but he was standing by her, and that was the most alarming detail of all.

"The Joker is dead," Batman declared. He did not look at me when he said it. He looked out over the skyline, toward the sprawling, decaying heart of the city that had defined both their lives. The statement hung in the air, sudden and absolute. I felt the breath leave my body, a hollow sensation expanding where my heart should have been. I didn't question it. If he said he was dead, he was dead. The implication for the criminal underworld, for Arkham, for everything we had built, was massive. But the way he said it carried a weight beyond just the end of a villain; it felt like the closing of a chapter that should have burned to ash long ago.

I wiped the rain from my eyes, the cold water stinging my skin. "Are you certain?"

"The pathology is conclusive. He was liquidated from the inside out. A synthetic agent, a metallic contaminant, was introduced into his system. The work of someone capable of highly advanced bio-engineering," he explained, his gravelly voice clipped and precise. He turned then, his blue eyes piercing, locking onto mine. "It wasn't a standard toxin. It was a catalyst. It acted with precision and speed, leaving no room for survival."

I looked at Quinn. She was staring at her boots, a small, humorless smile appearing on her lips. She made a sharp, clicking sound with her tongue, a nervous tick that resonated rhythmically against the background of the distant city sirens. She looked back up at me, and for a second, the mask of the jester dropped completely, revealing a woman who was vibrating with a terrifying, intellectual focus. She was the only person in this city who truly understood the depth of the chaos that had ended, and that scared me more than any open threat.

"It's called blood-silver, Commissioner," she said, her voice dropping the high-pitched affectation she usually employed, sounding instead like a clinical student of death explaining an assignment. "It’s experimental, volatile, and it burns through red blood cells like acid through silk. It wasn't meant for him, not originally. It was part of Kirk Langstrom's private research logs. He was chasing a way to stabilize his own condition, to purge the man-bat serum with something that could rewire the very foundation of internal metabolism."

I felt a cold shiver trace my spine, unrelated to the rain. Langstrom. A man who had been defined by his scientific brilliance and the terrifying consequences of his ambition. To hear it coming from her lips was chilling. "Why would you know that?"

"Because I was there when he was working on it," she said, her voice turning brittle. She paced a small circle on the roof, her movements quick, bird-like, and erratic. "He didn't think I was smart enough to piece it together. He was wrong. The Joker thought so too. And look where both of them ended up."

I turned to Batman, my brow furrowing in a deep, aching frustration. The moral implications of this partnership were staggering. I couldn't ignore the history, the blood on her hands, the decades of pain she had helped inflict upon the people I was sworn to protect. "You realize what you're asking, don't you? You're asking for the GCPD to open doors for someone who has spent her life trying to tear those doors down. My officers won't stand for it. I won't stand for it."

I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to massage away the sudden, sharp throbbing of a migraine. The exhaustion of the shift, the weight of the city, and now this insane intersection of loyalties. My badge felt heavy, a burden I was finding harder to carry with each passing year. I looked at Batman, searching for the man who had always stood for justice, for order. What I found was a wall of cold, unyielding resolve.

"The city is facing a threat that supersedes our past grievances," Batman said, his voice dropping another octave. He stepped into my personal space, his imposing frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light of the signal. "Langstrom is long gone, but his research is not. If that toxin is being produced by someone else, someone who understands how to weaponize it, we aren't just looking at a murder. We are looking at a massacre waiting to happen. She is the only living key to understanding the mechanism behind the death. Without her, we are chasing a ghost in a labyrinth."

I let out a shaky sigh, the vapor of my breath vanishing into the dark, wet air. The logic was sound, undeniably, but the ethics felt like a chasm I was being asked to leap across in the dark. I looked at Harley again. She was standing still now, her face devoid of the manic spark, watching me with a haunting, expectant gaze that held a flicker of genuine terror. She wasn't asking for my forgiveness; she was asking for the resources to fix a mistake she clearly felt accountable for in some twisted, personal capacity.

"And what happens when this file is opened?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the relentless drumming of the rain. "What happens when the investigation is over? Do I just walk her back into a cell, or do I sign off on a ghost?"

Batman didn't blink. "That depends on the investigation."

The ambiguity of his response was exactly why I hated this dance. I looked down at the concrete, at the puddles reflecting the sterile, cold light. Every instinct I had, every lesson I had learned in thirty years on the force, was shouting at me to walk away, to arrest her, to keep the GCPD clean of this rot. But then I thought of the chemical, the way he had described it—the systematic, clinical destruction of a human body. If that were unleashed in a subway station, in a school, anywhere in my district, the carnage would be absolute.

I turned away from them, walking toward the edge of the roof, looking out at the sprawling, sprawling inkblot of Gotham below. I felt the familiar weight of the city pressing against my ribs, a constant, heavy demand for solutions that didn't exist. My hands were trembling, I realized, the cold having seeped into my joints. I brought them up, locking my fingers behind my back to stop the shaking.

"If any of this goes sideways," I began, my voice steadying with a grim, professional resolve, "if a single life is lost because of this 'alliance,' and if she touches a hair on an officer's head, I don't care about the files. I don't care about the science. I will hunt both of you down."

I felt Batman standing behind me, a silent, dark sentinel who heard me and acknowledged the terms. I turned back around, feeling like an old man suddenly. I reached into my coat and pulled out a encrypted transit card, the plastic cold and slick. I looked at the two of them, the hero and the villain, caught in the same desperate, swirling rain.

"The restricted police archives, the ones concerning the precinct's oversight of Langstrom’s confiscated assets, are in the secure server in the basement. They have been locked down since the incident with the serum," I said, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. I extended my hand, holding the card out toward Batman, though I refused to actually touch his armored glove. "This will grant you access. But this is deep-level clearance, Batman. You are entering a zone of legal peril that I cannot dig you out of if the brass catches a whiff of this."

Batman took the card, his movements efficient, almost invisible. He did not say thank you. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes was change enough, a fleeting acknowledgement of the risks I was taking for the sake of the city. He looked toward the entrance, his mind already calculating the next step, already miles ahead of us both.

"There are risks, Gordon," Batman said, his voice a low, gravelly warning that hung in the humid air. "Do not think for a moment that this is an alliance of equals. This is an alignment of necessity, and it will draw heavy fire from those who believe they own the truth about what happened at Arkham. If you go through with this, you are effectively declaring war on the status quo of the investigation."

"I am aware of my duties, Batman," I replied, my voice sounding more tired than I felt. I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my trench coat, feeling the sodden fabric against my knuckles. I looked at Harley one last time, seeing a mirror of my own exhaustion reflected in her pale, rain-drenched face. She didn't say anything, but the way she straightened her shoulders suggested she understood the gravity of the gamble. The rain continued to fall, a relentless, icy curtain, obscuring the horizon and turning the world into a grey, forgotten corner of time. We stood there, caught in the silence, waiting for the inevitable consequences of the choice I had just made.

The rain had not ceased since the news from Arkham, washing the filth of Gotham closer to the gutters, turning the rooftop concrete into a dark, slick mirror that reflected only the harsh, oscillating beam of the Bat-Signal. My coat was heavy with the moisture, a chill seeping through the wool into my shoulders as I reached the final landing of the stairs. I had climbed them with a sense of dread that resided deep in my chest, a physical weight that made my lungs labor with every breath. I heard the muffled clatter of boots before I saw them. Stepping out onto the roof, the wind whipped the rain sharply against my face, cooling the sweat that had gathered at my hairline.

The shadows moved. Batman stood near the edge, his silhouette stark and daunting against the swirling grey backdrop of the night sky, his cape heavy and soaked. Beside him, leaning against the metal railing with a restless, oscillating energy that seemed entirely out of place in the grim silence, was Harley Quinn. Seeing her there, dressed in her signature garb, hit me like a physical blow. The last place I expected to find a known accomplice of the man who had tormented this city for decades was here, under the watchful gaze of the Dark Knight. I felt my hand drop reflexively to the grip of my holster, an instinctual, protective measure rather than an aggressive one, though the tension flared in my wrists.

I stepped forward, the sound of my boots on the wet gravel sharp and distinctive. The Batman did not turn immediately. His profile remained hard, his gaze fixed on the glowing aperture of the signal. When he finally shifted, the movement was slow and calculated, a predatory grace that never ceased to unsettle me even after all these years. Quinn straightened as well, her posture shifting from a nonchalant lean to something tenser, more observant. Her eyes moved over me, tracking, cataloging, before settling on my face with a disconcerting intensity that made me want to shield my eyes from her gaze.

"Gordon," he said, his voice as low and resonant as grindstone on iron. The sound cut through the howl of the wind effortlessly. He did not waste breath on formalities. The atmosphere on the roof was already thick with the unspoken, a suffocating pressure that tightened the skin across my neck. I reached the edge, my boots sliding slightly on the slick surface, and braced my hands against the rusted railing. I looked past him, then focused on his sharp, unmoving form.

"Batman. I received the signal," I started, my voice strained from the cold and the sheer exhaustion of the shifting political landscape of the precinct. I shifted my weight, trying to find a footing that didn't feel like I was slipping into an abyss. "You said it was urgent. You didn't mention bringing guests."

I allowed my gaze to flicker toward Quinn. She shifted her stance, a flicker of something raw and deeply pained crossing her features before she masked it with a forced, manic brightness that sat poorly on her face. Her breathing was uneven, a choppy, shallow intake that suggested she was holding a reservoir of nervous rage or grief tightly in check. I could see the way her fingers hooked into the fabric of her bodysuit, the knuckles white from the pressure. She was not a comfortable participant here, but he was standing by her, and that was the most alarming detail of all.

"The Joker is dead," Batman declared. He did not look at me when he said it. He looked out over the skyline, toward the sprawling, decaying heart of the city that had defined both their lives. The statement hung in the air, sudden and absolute. I felt the breath leave my body, a hollow sensation expanding where my heart should have been. I didn't question it. If he said he was dead, he was dead. The implication for the criminal underworld, for Arkham, for everything we had built, was massive. But the way he said it carried a weight beyond just the end of a villain; it felt like the closing of a chapter that should have burned to ash long ago.

I wiped the rain from my eyes, the cold water stinging my skin. "Are you certain?"

"The pathology is conclusive. He was liquidated from the inside out. A synthetic agent, a metallic contaminant, was introduced into his system. The work of someone capable of highly advanced bio-engineering," he explained, his gravelly voice clipped and precise. He turned then, his blue eyes piercing, locking onto mine. "It wasn't a standard toxin. It was a catalyst. It acted with precision and speed, leaving no room for survival."

I looked at Quinn. She was staring at her boots, a small, humorless smile appearing on her lips. She made a sharp, clicking sound with her tongue, a nervous tick that resonated rhythmically against the background of the distant city sirens. She looked back up at me, and for a second, the mask of the jester dropped completely, revealing a woman who was vibrating with a terrifying, intellectual focus. She was the only person in this city who truly understood the depth of the chaos that had ended, and that scared me more than any open threat.

"It's called blood-silver, Commissioner," she said, her voice dropping the high-pitched affectation she usually employed, sounding instead like a clinical student of death explaining an assignment. "It’s experimental, volatile, and it burns through red blood cells like acid through silk. It wasn't meant for him, not originally. It was part of Kirk Langstrom's private research logs. He was chasing a way to stabilize his own condition, to purge the man-bat serum with something that could rewire the very foundation of internal metabolism."

I felt a cold shiver trace my spine, unrelated to the rain. Langstrom. A man who had been defined by his scientific brilliance and the terrifying consequences of his ambition. To hear it coming from her lips was chilling. "Why would you know that?"

"Because I was there when he was working on it," she said, her voice turning brittle. She paced a small circle on the roof, her movements quick, bird-like, and erratic. "He didn't think I was smart enough to piece it together. He was wrong. The Joker thought so too. And look where both of them ended up."

I turned to Batman, my brow furrowing in a deep, aching frustration. The moral implications of this partnership were staggering. I couldn't ignore the history, the blood on her hands, the decades of pain she had helped inflict upon the people I was sworn to protect. "You realize what you're asking, don't you? You're asking for the GCPD to open doors for someone who has spent her life trying to tear those doors down. My officers won't stand for it. I won't stand for it."

I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to massage away the sudden, sharp throbbing of a migraine. The exhaustion of the shift, the weight of the city, and now this insane intersection of loyalties. My badge felt heavy, a burden I was finding harder to carry with each passing year. I looked at Batman, searching for the man who had always stood for justice, for order. What I found was a wall of cold, unyielding resolve.

"The city is facing a threat that supersedes our past grievances," Batman said, his voice dropping another octave. He stepped into my personal space, his imposing frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light of the signal. "Langstrom is long gone, but his research is not. If that toxin is being produced by someone else, someone who understands how to weaponize it, we aren't just looking at a murder. We are looking at a massacre waiting to happen. She is the only living key to understanding the mechanism behind the death. Without her, we are chasing a ghost in a labyrinth."

I let out a shaky sigh, the vapor of my breath vanishing into the dark, wet air. The logic was sound, undeniably, but the ethics felt like a chasm I was being asked to leap across in the dark. I looked at Harley again. She was standing still now, her face devoid of the manic spark, watching me with a haunting, expectant gaze that held a flicker of genuine terror. She wasn't asking for my forgiveness; she was asking for the resources to fix a mistake she clearly felt accountable for in some twisted, personal capacity.

"And what happens when this file is opened?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the relentless drumming of the rain. "What happens when the investigation is over? Do I just walk her back into a cell, or do I sign off on a ghost?"

Batman didn't blink. "That depends on the investigation."

The ambiguity of his response was exactly why I hated this dance. I looked down at the concrete, at the puddles reflecting the sterile, cold light. Every instinct I had, every lesson I had learned in thirty years on the force, was shouting at me to walk away, to arrest her, to keep the GCPD clean of this rot. But then I thought of the chemical, the way he had described it—the systematic, clinical destruction of a human body. If that were unleashed in a subway station, in a school, anywhere in my district, the carnage would be absolute.

I turned away from them, walking toward the edge of the roof, looking out at the sprawling, sprawling inkblot of Gotham below. I felt the familiar weight of the city pressing against my ribs, a constant, heavy demand for solutions that didn't exist. My hands were trembling, I realized, the cold having seeped into my joints. I brought them up, locking my fingers behind my back to stop the shaking.

"If any of this goes sideways," I began, my voice steadying with a grim, professional resolve, "if a single life is lost because of this 'alliance,' and if she touches a hair on an officer's head, I don't care about the files. I don't care about the science. I will hunt both of you down."

I felt Batman standing behind me, a silent, dark sentinel who heard me and acknowledged the terms. I turned back around, feeling like an old man suddenly. I reached into my coat and pulled out a encrypted transit card, the plastic cold and slick. I looked at the two of them, the hero and the villain, caught in the same desperate, swirling rain.

"The restricted police archives, the ones concerning the precinct's oversight of Langstrom’s confiscated assets, are in the secure server in the basement. They have been locked down since the incident with the serum," I said, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. I extended my hand, holding the card out toward Batman, though I refused to actually touch his armored glove. "This will grant you access. But this is deep-level clearance, Batman. You are entering a zone of legal peril that I cannot dig you out of if the brass catches a whiff of this."

Batman took the card, his movements efficient, almost invisible. He did not say thank you. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes was change enough, a fleeting acknowledgement of the risks I was taking for the sake of the city. He looked toward the entrance, his mind already calculating the next step, already miles ahead of us both.

"There are risks, Gordon," Batman said, his voice a low, gravelly warning that hung in the humid air. "Do not think for a moment that this is an alliance of equals. This is an alignment of necessity, and it will draw heavy fire from those who believe they own the truth about what happened at Arkham. If you go through with this, you are effectively declaring war on the status quo of the investigation."

"I am aware of my duties, Batman," I replied, my voice sounding more tired than I felt. I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my trench coat, feeling the sodden fabric against my knuckles. I looked at Harley one last time, seeing a mirror of my own exhaustion reflected in her pale, rain-drenched face. She didn't say anything, but the way she straightened her shoulders suggested she understood the gravity of the gamble. The rain continued to fall, a relentless, icy curtain, obscuring the horizon and turning the world into a grey, forgotten corner of time. We stood there, caught in the silence, waiting for the inevitable consequences of the choice I had just made. «The History Eater», part 3. Fanfiction — DC Universe.

Consulting the Commissioner. The History Eater — DC Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

Consulting the Commissioner

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 — Consulting the Commissioner

Part 3: Consulting the Commissioner