webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      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 on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments {
    id
    media {
      id
      type
      origin
      status
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      generationError
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      activeGenerationJob {
        status
        currentStage
        id
      }
      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 journey from the clearing had been a blur of aching joints and the rhythmic sound of forest life pressing in against the edges of the village path. Sunlight had long since surrendered to the encroaching thicket, and now, inside the council hut, the only light came from the erratic, golden flicker of torches set into the damp earth walls. Gamora sat on a low, coarse bench crafted from woven vines that bit into the back of her legs. The air was thick with the scent of damp moss, dry wood smoke, and the faint, underlying medicinal pungency of herbs that she did not recognize. She shifted, her body still throbbing from the exertion of the trek,

Lorvan paced in front of her, his wizened face casting long, distorted shadows against the tapestries that depicted faded, geometric depictions of celestial alignments. He stopped, his gnarled hands gripping his wooden staff so tightly that his knuckles looked like polished river stones. His gaze was distant, as if he were staring at a horizon only he could see, one shrouded in a creeping, encroaching shadow.

Everything is changing, the darkness moves not as a storm but as a hunger, he muttered, his voice gravelly and hollow. It eats the life from our crops, slows the pulse of the rivers, and dims the very spirits of our young. We have prayed to the silent heavens, to the cold entities that watch from above, but they provide no warmth. We were beginning to think we were forgotten by the cycle itself.

He turned to look at Gamora, his eyes searching hers for some sign of cosmic recognition, a desperation written into every wrinkle of his brow. You have fallen from the sky like a burning star, and for a moment, I saw the reflection of a different fate in your eyes, a destiny that demands blood to fuel the return of light. Tell us that you stand against this shadow. Tell us that the cycle will not end under our watch.

Gamora remained still, her hands resting on her knees, though her right hand twitched reflexively toward the hilt of her knife before she forced it to remain flat. She could feel the stares of the other elders around the perimeter of the hut, their silence pressuring her, demanding a truth she did not possess. To them, she was a messiah, an emissary of the stars, but all she felt was the cold drag of fatigue and the lingering, corrosive guilt of a life spent serving a different kind of darkness.

I am not the savior you imagine, she stated, her voice steady and low, hitting the silence of the room with a sharp, metallic edge. I am a traveler caught in a conflict I did not seek, and my only concern at this moment is surviving the next sunrise. Do not mistake a fight for a crusade.

Serala, who had been standing apart from the others, stepped into the flicker of the torchlight. Her silver hair seemed to capture the fire, shimmering like mercury, and her violet eyes held an intensity that felt strangely calculated, almost clinical. She moved with a silent, measured grace, the long blue robes she wore whispering against the dirt floor as she circled Gamora, her gaze dissecting, evaluating every cybernetic scar on Gamora's face, every tension in her posture.

Are the stars as cold as they look from down here? she asked, her voice melodic and unexpectedly soft, cutting through the tension with a precision that bordered on invasive. Do they burn with the same indifference out there in the void? You stare at the shadows, child, but you possess the mark of things that have lived among the fires of creation. Do not tell me of survival when the scent of battle still clings to your skin like dry blood.

Gamora braced herself inwardly, feeling the trap closing. She couldn't admit she had no idea what kind of prophecy they were talking about, nor could she explain the horrors of the galaxy that had forged her into a weapon. Every word she spoke had to be a carefully constructed lie that led toward safety.

They burn, she bit out, her eyes narrowing as she met Serala's intense, analytical gaze. And they burn everything they touch. If you think the sky brings redemption, you have never looked closely at the incinerated dust of a conquered world. The only truth in the stars is that the strong survive, and the weak are consumed.

Serala stopped directly in front of her, leaning in close enough for Gamora to catch the scent of cedar and dried ozone that clung to the elder's robes. A flicker of something like satisfaction crossed Serala's face, a slight curling of her lips that did not reach her eyes. She reached into the folds of her garments and withdrew a heavy, intricate cloak, embroidered with patterns that mimicked the constellations she had pointed to earlier. The fabric felt heavy and rough against her skin as Serala draped it around Gamora's battered shoulders, covering the torn remnants of her combat suit.

Then you are exactly what we need, Serala whispered, her voice a low, commanding hum. We do not require a saint, warrior. We require a force that is as cold and indifferent as the fate we fear. This cloak identifies you as the guardian of the council, the bearer of the final stand. Wear it, and take up the path that has been laid for you.

Gamora felt the weight of the fabric settle onto her shoulders, a symbolic armor that felt heavier than any metal plate she had ever worn. The expectation pressed down on her lungs, suffocating and absolute. She looked up and saw Lorvan waiting, his back slightly bent, his face a mask of fragile hope that would shatter into absolute despair if she turned away. She thought of the harsh, unforgiving wilderness outside, her lack of resources, and the fact that she had nowhere else to return to.

Survival was a ruthless master, and she had spent her entire life following its dictates, sacrificing everything for the sake of one more day. She reached up, slowly pulling the cloak tighter around her, feeling the coarse texture of the fibers against her neck. She looked at Serala, then out at the dark, expectant faces of the elders, realizing that this wasn't just a role she was assuming; it was the only bridge across the chasm of her own isolation.

If I defend this village, she said, her voice sounding distant, even to her own ears, I defend it on my own terms. There will be no prayers and no worship. Only the hard necessity of war. If you want the shadow pushed back, you will accept that the hand that wields the blade will be as stained as the darkness itself.

Lorvan let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping as if a massive, invisible burden had finally been shifted. He bowed his head low, not in a gesture of servitude, but in an admission of desperate relief. Serala watched her, her expression unreadable, acknowledging the agreement with a slow, deliberate nod. Gamora stood up, her wounded leg protesting the movement, but she forced herself to remain upright, the weight of the cloak pulling at her shoulders, grounding her in this alien, primitive place. The path was set; she would be their defender, not because she believed in the prophecy, but because the alternative was to die alone in the dark, and for the first time in her life, she chose the path that offered a glimpse of a different existence, a path of service that might lead to a redemption she had long ago ceased to expect.

The journey from the clearing had been a blur of aching joints and the rhythmic sound of forest life pressing in against the edges of the village path. Sunlight had long since surrendered to the encroaching thicket, and now, inside the council hut, the only light came from the erratic, golden flicker of torches set into the damp earth walls. Gamora sat on a low, coarse bench crafted from woven vines that bit into the back of her legs. The air was thick with the scent of damp moss, dry wood smoke, and the faint, underlying medicinal pungency of herbs that she did not recognize. She shifted, her body still throbbing from the exertion of the trek,

Lorvan paced in front of her, his wizened face casting long, distorted shadows against the tapestries that depicted faded, geometric depictions of celestial alignments. He stopped, his gnarled hands gripping his wooden staff so tightly that his knuckles looked like polished river stones. His gaze was distant, as if he were staring at a horizon only he could see, one shrouded in a creeping, encroaching shadow.

Everything is changing, the darkness moves not as a storm but as a hunger, he muttered, his voice gravelly and hollow. It eats the life from our crops, slows the pulse of the rivers, and dims the very spirits of our young. We have prayed to the silent heavens, to the cold entities that watch from above, but they provide no warmth. We were beginning to think we were forgotten by the cycle itself.

He turned to look at Gamora, his eyes searching hers for some sign of cosmic recognition, a desperation written into every wrinkle of his brow. You have fallen from the sky like a burning star, and for a moment, I saw the reflection of a different fate in your eyes, a destiny that demands blood to fuel the return of light. Tell us that you stand against this shadow. Tell us that the cycle will not end under our watch.

Gamora remained still, her hands resting on her knees, though her right hand twitched reflexively toward the hilt of her knife before she forced it to remain flat. She could feel the stares of the other elders around the perimeter of the hut, their silence pressuring her, demanding a truth she did not possess. To them, she was a messiah, an emissary of the stars, but all she felt was the cold drag of fatigue and the lingering, corrosive guilt of a life spent serving a different kind of darkness.

I am not the savior you imagine, she stated, her voice steady and low, hitting the silence of the room with a sharp, metallic edge. I am a traveler caught in a conflict I did not seek, and my only concern at this moment is surviving the next sunrise. Do not mistake a fight for a crusade.

Serala, who had been standing apart from the others, stepped into the flicker of the torchlight. Her silver hair seemed to capture the fire, shimmering like mercury, and her violet eyes held an intensity that felt strangely calculated, almost clinical. She moved with a silent, measured grace, the long blue robes she wore whispering against the dirt floor as she circled Gamora, her gaze dissecting, evaluating every cybernetic scar on Gamora's face, every tension in her posture.

Are the stars as cold as they look from down here? she asked, her voice melodic and unexpectedly soft, cutting through the tension with a precision that bordered on invasive. Do they burn with the same indifference out there in the void? You stare at the shadows, child, but you possess the mark of things that have lived among the fires of creation. Do not tell me of survival when the scent of battle still clings to your skin like dry blood.

Gamora braced herself inwardly, feeling the trap closing. She couldn't admit she had no idea what kind of prophecy they were talking about, nor could she explain the horrors of the galaxy that had forged her into a weapon. Every word she spoke had to be a carefully constructed lie that led toward safety.

They burn, she bit out, her eyes narrowing as she met Serala's intense, analytical gaze. And they burn everything they touch. If you think the sky brings redemption, you have never looked closely at the incinerated dust of a conquered world. The only truth in the stars is that the strong survive, and the weak are consumed.

Serala stopped directly in front of her, leaning in close enough for Gamora to catch the scent of cedar and dried ozone that clung to the elder's robes. A flicker of something like satisfaction crossed Serala's face, a slight curling of her lips that did not reach her eyes. She reached into the folds of her garments and withdrew a heavy, intricate cloak, embroidered with patterns that mimicked the constellations she had pointed to earlier. The fabric felt heavy and rough against her skin as Serala draped it around Gamora's battered shoulders, covering the torn remnants of her combat suit.

Then you are exactly what we need, Serala whispered, her voice a low, commanding hum. We do not require a saint, warrior. We require a force that is as cold and indifferent as the fate we fear. This cloak identifies you as the guardian of the council, the bearer of the final stand. Wear it, and take up the path that has been laid for you.

Gamora felt the weight of the fabric settle onto her shoulders, a symbolic armor that felt heavier than any metal plate she had ever worn. The expectation pressed down on her lungs, suffocating and absolute. She looked up and saw Lorvan waiting, his back slightly bent, his face a mask of fragile hope that would shatter into absolute despair if she turned away. She thought of the harsh, unforgiving wilderness outside, her lack of resources, and the fact that she had nowhere else to return to.

Survival was a ruthless master, and she had spent her entire life following its dictates, sacrificing everything for the sake of one more day. She reached up, slowly pulling the cloak tighter around her, feeling the coarse texture of the fibers against her neck. She looked at Serala, then out at the dark, expectant faces of the elders, realizing that this wasn't just a role she was assuming; it was the only bridge across the chasm of her own isolation.

If I defend this village, she said, her voice sounding distant, even to her own ears, I defend it on my own terms. There will be no prayers and no worship. Only the hard necessity of war. If you want the shadow pushed back, you will accept that the hand that wields the blade will be as stained as the darkness itself.

Lorvan let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping as if a massive, invisible burden had finally been shifted. He bowed his head low, not in a gesture of servitude, but in an admission of desperate relief. Serala watched her, her expression unreadable, acknowledging the agreement with a slow, deliberate nod. Gamora stood up, her wounded leg protesting the movement, but she forced herself to remain upright, the weight of the cloak pulling at her shoulders, grounding her in this alien, primitive place. The path was set; she would be their defender, not because she believed in the prophecy, but because the alternative was to die alone in the dark, and for the first time in her life, she chose the path that offered a glimpse of a different existence, a path of service that might lead to a redemption she had long ago ceased to expect. «The Reluctant Goddess», part 3. Fanfiction — Marvel Cinematic Universe.

The Burden of Prophecy. The Reluctant Goddess — Marvel Cinematic Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

The Burden of Prophecy

Whatever It Takes

After a failed mission leaves Gamora stranded on a forgotten backwater planet, she finds herself mistaken for a legendary warrior from prophecy—a champion destined to defeat an encroaching darkness. To survive and protect the superstitious inhabitants who now worship her, she must bury her assassin's past and play the hero. But the Guardians are searching for her, and if they arrive, they'll expose the lie. How long can she play goddess before her killer instincts betray her?

The Reluctant Goddess — The Burden of Prophecy

Part 3: The Burden of Prophecy