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 morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed sage, a stark departure from the sterile, metallic tang of the vessels that had once been my only home. Sunlight bled across the floorboards of the hut, painting long, golden ribs of light over the humble belongings of this village. I lay on the cot, my body a map of failures and scars, feeling the weight of the last few days settling into my muscles like lead. Elara moved beside me with a quiet efficiency that made the air feel thin. She pressed a poultice of cool, pungent herbs onto the jagged laceration on my shoulder, her touch firm but tempered with a gentleness I had not earned. I shifted, the fabric of my combat suit pulling against the sensitive skin of my arm, and felt a dull, thumping ache resonate from somewhere deep in my chest. It was not just the wounds; it was the proximity of someone caring for me without demanding a tribute of blood or loyalty in return. I tried to focus on the textures of the wood planks beneath me, a grounding exercise I had mastered in darker times, but the presence of the woman who held my life in her calloused hands felt overwhelming.

Elara’s fingers moved across the inflamed edges of the cut with a rhythmic grace. She did not ask questions about the battles I had fought or the reasons for my exile. She only worked, humming a low, melodic tune that seemed to harmonize with the cicadas screaming in the brush outside. I closed my eyes for a second, catching the drift of her intention. She was trying to soothe more than just the flesh. I drew a breath, the air tasting of life and dust, and forced myself to remain still. At the doorway, a shadow bloomed into being. Tinka stood there, the small frame of the girl silhouetted by the brilliant, aggressive light of the morning. Her eyes, wide and searching, flickered between the mess of bandages and the unnatural green of my skin. There was no fear in her gaze, only the bright, burning curiosity of someone who had never known the cold reaches of the galaxy between the stars. She shifted her weight, the wooden floorboards groaning under her bare feet. I felt her presence like a ripple in a pool, a disturbance that made the small room feel suddenly crowded, exposed. She was not a threat, but she was an observer, and I had spent my entire existence ensuring that my weaknesses remained invisible to anyone who might use them against me.

Elara paused, dipping a clean cloth into a basin of water. She glanced toward the door, her expression softening into a maternal warmth that I found alien and difficult to process. Tinka took a tentative step into the room, then another, until she was close enough that I could smell the faint scent of wild berries on her skin. She looked at the bloodstained mesh of my uniform, her forehead creased in a frown of honest concern. She was searching for a story, I realized, the legendary warrior myth that had been woven into the tapestry of their culture. I kept my face neutral, a mask of stone cast to prevent anyone from seeing the exhaustion that threatened to pull me under. The way the light caught her messy braids made her look like a piece of the landscape itself, rooted and steady in a way I could never be. She cleared her throat, a soft, nervous sound that cut through the silence of the room. It was the sound of a question waiting for permission to be asked.

Are the stars as cold as they look from down here, Gamora? Tinka asked, her voice barely rising above the rustling of the leaves outside. She had crept closer, her fingers weaving together in front of her chest. I looked at her, noting the way she tried not to stare at the cybernetic wiring at my temple. The question hung in the air, deceptively simple, hiding a universe of complexity that I had no desire to touch. The stars were not cold; they were indifferent furnaces, burning through the light-years with a hunger that would swallow an entire civilization without a blink of hesitation. They were markers for jump-gates, navigational points for conquest, and the cold voids where silence was the only companion. I hesitated, feeling the weight of the memories shifting in the back of my mind. The vacuum of space, the silence of a cockpit, the distant, shimmering ghosts of stars I had watched burn from the bridge of a warship. I looked at my hands, resting heavily on the thin blanket, and then back up at the child. They are just fire, I said, my voice sounding rough and unfamiliar in the quiet space of the hut. They do not care about us, Tinka. They are far away, and they do not know we are here.

Elara finished applying a sticky, aromatic salve to the deeper puncture on my shoulder and reached for a strip of clean linen. She moved with deliberate care, winding the bandage around my arm, keeping the pressure consistent. I felt the tightening of the fabric, a physical tethering that kept me anchored to the cot. Tinka did not move, her gaze locked on the process as if she were learning the anatomy of my survival. Do they talk to you? she persisted, her excitement barely contained. Do they tell you the things that are going to happen? She made it sound like a gift, a mystic communion with the heavens, but to me, it felt like an indictment of the path I had carved through the galaxy. There were no voices in the stars, only calculations and the inevitable drift of debris. I took a slow breath, feeling the protest of my bruised ribs. The stars are empty, I said, forcing a degree of patience I rarely afforded anyone. They are only light that traveled a long way to reach us. They have no messages. They have no memory.

Tinka looked disappointed, but her persistence didn't wane. She sat on a low wooden stool near the side of the cot, tucking her feet beneath her. Her eyes, dark and searching, seemed to peel back the layers of my armor. She wanted me to be more than a survivor; she wanted me to be a piece of the sky brought down to earth. I felt a sharp pang of irritation, not at her, but at the expectation. I was a weapon, not a constellation. Tinka reached out, her hand hovering near my wrist, but she didn't touch me. She stayed just out of reach, respecting a boundary I hadn't explicitly set. It occurred to me then that she was waiting for me to be someone I had spent my entire life killing. The girl shifted again, catching the light in a way that made her look painfully young. You have seen everything, haven't you? she asked, her voice hushed with awe. You have been everywhere the gods haven't.

I shifted my gaze toward the small, uneven window set into the wall. Outside, the sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and burning gold. It was a beautiful, chaotic display, as indifferent to us as the stars themselves. I watched the golden light bleed into the horizon, thinking of how easily death could come beneath such a sky. I thought of the path I had traveled, the blood on my hands, and the cold, calculated maneuvers of my past. I looked back at Tinka, who was watching me with a devotion that felt like an anchor. My past was a graveyard, and I was its only monument, but in this room, with the smell of healing herbs and the gentle, careful touch of Elara, the reality of that past felt distant, almost like a dream. I am just a person, I whispered, the words sounding hollow even to my ears. I am just a person trying to keep the world from ending, one day at a time.

Elara secured the knot of the bandage on my shoulder and stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at me for a long moment, a gaze that wasn't judgmental, just observant and calm. I felt her presence as a kind of silent demand for surrender, a request that I lower my defenses permanently. The silence stretched between us, thick with the weight of things unsaid. Tinka remained by my side, her eyes never leaving my face. The vulnerability of my position, lying here on a cot, unable to stand, rendered me exposed in a way I had never allowed. It was a terrifying feeling, to be cared for, to have someone treat the damage not as a tactical error to be salvaged, but as a wound that needed healing. I looked at my own arms, the stark, angular lines of my cybernetic implants contrasting with the soft, worn linen of the bandage. I wasn't made for this. I was made for the coldness of space, the harsh clarity of a mission, and the single-minded focus of survival. And yet, there was a strange, disquieting tug in my chest that suggested otherwise.

I watched the sunset as it finally dipped below the ridge of the mountains that circled the village. The room was growing dim, the shadows stretching across the floor, turning the herbs hanging from the rafters into dark, spindly fingers of silhouette. Tinka was still there, a silent sentinel who seemed satisfied just to be in the same space as the broken warrior she admired. I felt the ache in my shoulder, the lingering pulse of the damage I had sustained, but for the first time in years, the pain didn't feel like a debt I was paying to some cruel master. It felt simply like the consequence of a choice, a choice to be here, to be present. The thought was heavy, laden with implications, and I shied away from it, pushing it back into the darkest corners of my mind. I was a tool, and tools don't have feelings of belonging. They have utility. And then, I looked at Tinka’s small, dirt-streaked face, and the way Elara was quietly clearing the room, giving me space, and I realized that my definitions were changing.

I tried to push myself up, my muscles screaming in protest as I moved from the cot to a sitting position. The effort left me winded, my heart thumping against my ribs. I looked toward the window again, watching the first of the stars prick the velvet darkness of the sky. They were exactly as I had described them—cold, distant, and uncaring—but somehow, looking at them now, they felt diminished. The vast, empty space they represented didn't feel like the only world I could inhabit anymore. Tinka looked at me, her expression shifting from curiosity to a quiet, serene satisfaction as she watched me manage the movement. You’re strong, she said, her voice small and firm. When you get better, you will show us everything, won't you? It wasn't a question anymore. It was an expectation she had built for me, a pillar for her own world. I didn't answer immediately. I looked at the dark silhouette of the world outside, felt the presence of the two villagers in the room, and then felt the unfamiliar, prickling heat of moisture in my own eyes. I was here. I was injured, I was broken, and I was, for the first time in my existence, part of someone else's story.

Tinka reached out, her fingers just barely brushing the edge of the cot where my hand rested. I didn't recoil. I didn't flinch. I felt the warmth of her touch, a small, fragile thing, and somehow, it was enough. I am not a hero, I finally said, though the words sounded tired, devoid of the certainty I had once possessed. I am just a person who made too many mistakes in the dark. It is a long way back from that, and I do not know if I can ever find the way. Tinka just smiled, a small, sad, and infinitely hopeful expression. That is okay, she said, and her voice sounded like a promise. You are here now. The way she said it made the statement sound like an absolute. For a moment, the weight of the galaxy, the history of the titan who raised me, and the legacy of the battles I had fought seemed to recede, leaving me with only the immediate, suffocating closeness of the room and the quiet, expectant faces of these people. It was a strange sense of belonging, a feeling that clawed at the walls of my defiance, forcing me to confront the reality that I was no longer a lone spark in the void.

I looked at my hand, then at Tinka, and finally at Elara, who was busy with the tools of her trade, moving with the rhythmic, steady pace of a woman who knew exactly what her place in the world was. I realized that my wariness wasn't gone—it was built into the very cells of my body, a layer of protection that would never fully fall away—but it was different now. It was no longer a shield meant to keep everyone out, but a perimeter intended to protect the people I had sworn to defend. This was not the life I had chosen, but it was the one I had found. I leaned back against the rough wood of the wall, my gaze returning to the window, to the stars that no longer seemed like targets. They were just lights, distant and cold, but here, in this room, there was warmth. It wasn't mine, not yet, but I was beginning to learn how to exist in its presence without being consumed by the fear of losing it. I closed my eyes, listening to the night sounds of the village, and felt the quiet ache of a life that was finally beginning to move forward, one bandage at a time.

The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed sage, a stark departure from the sterile, metallic tang of the vessels that had once been my only home. Sunlight bled across the floorboards of the hut, painting long, golden ribs of light over the humble belongings of this village. I lay on the cot, my body a map of failures and scars, feeling the weight of the last few days settling into my muscles like lead. Elara moved beside me with a quiet efficiency that made the air feel thin. She pressed a poultice of cool, pungent herbs onto the jagged laceration on my shoulder, her touch firm but tempered with a gentleness I had not earned. I shifted, the fabric of my combat suit pulling against the sensitive skin of my arm, and felt a dull, thumping ache resonate from somewhere deep in my chest. It was not just the wounds; it was the proximity of someone caring for me without demanding a tribute of blood or loyalty in return. I tried to focus on the textures of the wood planks beneath me, a grounding exercise I had mastered in darker times, but the presence of the woman who held my life in her calloused hands felt overwhelming.

Elara’s fingers moved across the inflamed edges of the cut with a rhythmic grace. She did not ask questions about the battles I had fought or the reasons for my exile. She only worked, humming a low, melodic tune that seemed to harmonize with the cicadas screaming in the brush outside. I closed my eyes for a second, catching the drift of her intention. She was trying to soothe more than just the flesh. I drew a breath, the air tasting of life and dust, and forced myself to remain still. At the doorway, a shadow bloomed into being. Tinka stood there, the small frame of the girl silhouetted by the brilliant, aggressive light of the morning. Her eyes, wide and searching, flickered between the mess of bandages and the unnatural green of my skin. There was no fear in her gaze, only the bright, burning curiosity of someone who had never known the cold reaches of the galaxy between the stars. She shifted her weight, the wooden floorboards groaning under her bare feet. I felt her presence like a ripple in a pool, a disturbance that made the small room feel suddenly crowded, exposed. She was not a threat, but she was an observer, and I had spent my entire existence ensuring that my weaknesses remained invisible to anyone who might use them against me.

Elara paused, dipping a clean cloth into a basin of water. She glanced toward the door, her expression softening into a maternal warmth that I found alien and difficult to process. Tinka took a tentative step into the room, then another, until she was close enough that I could smell the faint scent of wild berries on her skin. She looked at the bloodstained mesh of my uniform, her forehead creased in a frown of honest concern. She was searching for a story, I realized, the legendary warrior myth that had been woven into the tapestry of their culture. I kept my face neutral, a mask of stone cast to prevent anyone from seeing the exhaustion that threatened to pull me under. The way the light caught her messy braids made her look like a piece of the landscape itself, rooted and steady in a way I could never be. She cleared her throat, a soft, nervous sound that cut through the silence of the room. It was the sound of a question waiting for permission to be asked.

Are the stars as cold as they look from down here, Gamora? Tinka asked, her voice barely rising above the rustling of the leaves outside. She had crept closer, her fingers weaving together in front of her chest. I looked at her, noting the way she tried not to stare at the cybernetic wiring at my temple. The question hung in the air, deceptively simple, hiding a universe of complexity that I had no desire to touch. The stars were not cold; they were indifferent furnaces, burning through the light-years with a hunger that would swallow an entire civilization without a blink of hesitation. They were markers for jump-gates, navigational points for conquest, and the cold voids where silence was the only companion. I hesitated, feeling the weight of the memories shifting in the back of my mind. The vacuum of space, the silence of a cockpit, the distant, shimmering ghosts of stars I had watched burn from the bridge of a warship. I looked at my hands, resting heavily on the thin blanket, and then back up at the child. They are just fire, I said, my voice sounding rough and unfamiliar in the quiet space of the hut. They do not care about us, Tinka. They are far away, and they do not know we are here.

Elara finished applying a sticky, aromatic salve to the deeper puncture on my shoulder and reached for a strip of clean linen. She moved with deliberate care, winding the bandage around my arm, keeping the pressure consistent. I felt the tightening of the fabric, a physical tethering that kept me anchored to the cot. Tinka did not move, her gaze locked on the process as if she were learning the anatomy of my survival. Do they talk to you? she persisted, her excitement barely contained. Do they tell you the things that are going to happen? She made it sound like a gift, a mystic communion with the heavens, but to me, it felt like an indictment of the path I had carved through the galaxy. There were no voices in the stars, only calculations and the inevitable drift of debris. I took a slow breath, feeling the protest of my bruised ribs. The stars are empty, I said, forcing a degree of patience I rarely afforded anyone. They are only light that traveled a long way to reach us. They have no messages. They have no memory.

Tinka looked disappointed, but her persistence didn't wane. She sat on a low wooden stool near the side of the cot, tucking her feet beneath her. Her eyes, dark and searching, seemed to peel back the layers of my armor. She wanted me to be more than a survivor; she wanted me to be a piece of the sky brought down to earth. I felt a sharp pang of irritation, not at her, but at the expectation. I was a weapon, not a constellation. Tinka reached out, her hand hovering near my wrist, but she didn't touch me. She stayed just out of reach, respecting a boundary I hadn't explicitly set. It occurred to me then that she was waiting for me to be someone I had spent my entire life killing. The girl shifted again, catching the light in a way that made her look painfully young. You have seen everything, haven't you? she asked, her voice hushed with awe. You have been everywhere the gods haven't.

I shifted my gaze toward the small, uneven window set into the wall. Outside, the sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and burning gold. It was a beautiful, chaotic display, as indifferent to us as the stars themselves. I watched the golden light bleed into the horizon, thinking of how easily death could come beneath such a sky. I thought of the path I had traveled, the blood on my hands, and the cold, calculated maneuvers of my past. I looked back at Tinka, who was watching me with a devotion that felt like an anchor. My past was a graveyard, and I was its only monument, but in this room, with the smell of healing herbs and the gentle, careful touch of Elara, the reality of that past felt distant, almost like a dream. I am just a person, I whispered, the words sounding hollow even to my ears. I am just a person trying to keep the world from ending, one day at a time.

Elara secured the knot of the bandage on my shoulder and stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at me for a long moment, a gaze that wasn't judgmental, just observant and calm. I felt her presence as a kind of silent demand for surrender, a request that I lower my defenses permanently. The silence stretched between us, thick with the weight of things unsaid. Tinka remained by my side, her eyes never leaving my face. The vulnerability of my position, lying here on a cot, unable to stand, rendered me exposed in a way I had never allowed. It was a terrifying feeling, to be cared for, to have someone treat the damage not as a tactical error to be salvaged, but as a wound that needed healing. I looked at my own arms, the stark, angular lines of my cybernetic implants contrasting with the soft, worn linen of the bandage. I wasn't made for this. I was made for the coldness of space, the harsh clarity of a mission, and the single-minded focus of survival. And yet, there was a strange, disquieting tug in my chest that suggested otherwise.

I watched the sunset as it finally dipped below the ridge of the mountains that circled the village. The room was growing dim, the shadows stretching across the floor, turning the herbs hanging from the rafters into dark, spindly fingers of silhouette. Tinka was still there, a silent sentinel who seemed satisfied just to be in the same space as the broken warrior she admired. I felt the ache in my shoulder, the lingering pulse of the damage I had sustained, but for the first time in years, the pain didn't feel like a debt I was paying to some cruel master. It felt simply like the consequence of a choice, a choice to be here, to be present. The thought was heavy, laden with implications, and I shied away from it, pushing it back into the darkest corners of my mind. I was a tool, and tools don't have feelings of belonging. They have utility. And then, I looked at Tinka’s small, dirt-streaked face, and the way Elara was quietly clearing the room, giving me space, and I realized that my definitions were changing.

I tried to push myself up, my muscles screaming in protest as I moved from the cot to a sitting position. The effort left me winded, my heart thumping against my ribs. I looked toward the window again, watching the first of the stars prick the velvet darkness of the sky. They were exactly as I had described them—cold, distant, and uncaring—but somehow, looking at them now, they felt diminished. The vast, empty space they represented didn't feel like the only world I could inhabit anymore. Tinka looked at me, her expression shifting from curiosity to a quiet, serene satisfaction as she watched me manage the movement. You’re strong, she said, her voice small and firm. When you get better, you will show us everything, won't you? It wasn't a question anymore. It was an expectation she had built for me, a pillar for her own world. I didn't answer immediately. I looked at the dark silhouette of the world outside, felt the presence of the two villagers in the room, and then felt the unfamiliar, prickling heat of moisture in my own eyes. I was here. I was injured, I was broken, and I was, for the first time in my existence, part of someone else's story.

Tinka reached out, her fingers just barely brushing the edge of the cot where my hand rested. I didn't recoil. I didn't flinch. I felt the warmth of her touch, a small, fragile thing, and somehow, it was enough. I am not a hero, I finally said, though the words sounded tired, devoid of the certainty I had once possessed. I am just a person who made too many mistakes in the dark. It is a long way back from that, and I do not know if I can ever find the way. Tinka just smiled, a small, sad, and infinitely hopeful expression. That is okay, she said, and her voice sounded like a promise. You are here now. The way she said it made the statement sound like an absolute. For a moment, the weight of the galaxy, the history of the titan who raised me, and the legacy of the battles I had fought seemed to recede, leaving me with only the immediate, suffocating closeness of the room and the quiet, expectant faces of these people. It was a strange sense of belonging, a feeling that clawed at the walls of my defiance, forcing me to confront the reality that I was no longer a lone spark in the void.

I looked at my hand, then at Tinka, and finally at Elara, who was busy with the tools of her trade, moving with the rhythmic, steady pace of a woman who knew exactly what her place in the world was. I realized that my wariness wasn't gone—it was built into the very cells of my body, a layer of protection that would never fully fall away—but it was different now. It was no longer a shield meant to keep everyone out, but a perimeter intended to protect the people I had sworn to defend. This was not the life I had chosen, but it was the one I had found. I leaned back against the rough wood of the wall, my gaze returning to the window, to the stars that no longer seemed like targets. They were just lights, distant and cold, but here, in this room, there was warmth. It wasn't mine, not yet, but I was beginning to learn how to exist in its presence without being consumed by the fear of losing it. I closed my eyes, listening to the night sounds of the village, and felt the quiet ache of a life that was finally beginning to move forward, one bandage at a time. «The Reluctant Goddess», part 4. Fanfiction — Marvel Cinematic Universe.

Healing the Assassin. The Reluctant Goddess — Marvel Cinematic Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

Healing the Assassin

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 — Healing the Assassin

Part 4: Healing the Assassin