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 flashlight beam cut a narrow cone through the darkness, illuminating peeling paint and cracked plaster. Harvey Bullock's footsteps echoed flatly off the walls, the sound swallowed by the dead air of the abandoned wing. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with doors that were either closed or hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. Dust motes danced in the light, and the smell was old—mold, dry rot, and something metallic, like old blood.

He moved slowly, deliberately, his right hand resting on the butt of his service revolver. The air was cold and still, pressing against his face. Every few steps he paused, tilting his head to listen. Silence. Thick, heavy silence that seemed to have weight. No hum of electricity, no distant traffic noise. Just the sound of his own breathing and the faint creak of his leather shoes on the linoleum floor.

The beam swept across a door frame where the wood was splintered near the lock. Fresh marks, pale wood showing through the old varnish. Not months old—days. He knelt, running his thumb over the jagged edge. Something had forced it open, or pried it. But the padlock on the fire door had been undone, not broken. Whoever had come here had keys—or someone had let them in.

He stood, wiping dust off his trousers. The corridor branched left and right ahead. He checked the file in his mind: the motion sensors had been triggered in a room near the end of this wing, according to Corrigan's logs. Second door on the right after the junction. Room 314, if the faded numbers above the doorframes were any guide.

Bullock turned right, his flashlight beam picking out a door that stood slightly ajar. Unlike the others, which were either closed or wide open, this one was cracked just an inch, a sliver of blackness beyond. The light reflected off the edge of what looked like a metal table inside. His pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the familiar jolt of a case breaking open. This was it.

He approached, keeping his footsteps quiet, though there was no one to hear him. The floor here was covered in a thin layer of grit, and he could see footprints—multiple sets, overlapping, heading in and out of that room. Shoe prints. Some with a tread pattern, others smooth-soled, like dress shoes. One set was particularly deep, the prints of a large, heavy man.

Bullock reached the door. He pressed his palm flat against the wood and pushed gently. The hinges groaned, a high-pitched whine that cut through the silence like a knife. He winced but kept pushing until the door swung open fully, revealing the room beyond.

The flashlight beam swept the space in a slow arc. It was a former treatment room—small, with a single barred window high on the far wall, the glass painted over decades ago. An examination table stood in the center, its leather surface cracked and stained. Metal cabinets lined one wall, their doors hanging open, empty. But it was what lay beyond the table that made Bullock stop breathing.

In the corner, partially hidden by a fallen cabinet, was a chair. Not just any chair—a straight-backed wooden chair with leather straps bolted to the arms and legs. And in that chair, slumped forward, was a man.

Bullock's flashlight fixed on the figure. White lab coat, dark suit, balding head. Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. Unconscious. His hands were bound to the armrests with nylon rope, his ankles similarly secured to the chair legs. His head hung forward, chin touching his chest. A strip of duct tape covered his mouth.

"Doc," Bullock muttered under his breath. He crossed the room quickly, his shoes scuffing on the grimy floor. He knelt beside the chair, setting the flashlight on the floor so it pointed upward, casting long shadows across Arkham's face. He reached out and pressed two fingers to the side of Arkham's neck, just below the jaw. Warm. A pulse. Steady, though a little fast. Alive.

Relief washed through him, but it was quickly replaced by a cold anger. Who the hell would do this? And why here, in the abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum, of all places?

He straightened, his knees popping. The beam of the flashlight didn't reach all corners of the room, so he pulled out his own small Maglite from his coat pocket and clicked it on, supplementing the larger light. He swept both beams across the room, looking for anything else—a weapon, a note, a clue.

Near the wall, just beside the chair, a small metal tray table stood, the kind used in hospitals for instruments. On it, something glinted. Bullock moved closer, his heart thudding. It was an injector—a sleek, silver-and-black device, about the size of a TV remote, with a needle protruding from one end. The reservoir was empty, but a faint residue glistened inside. A sedative? Something worse?

He didn't touch it. Instead, he traced the line of the needle's path. The angle would have been perfect for the chair. Someone had administered something to Arkham before—or after—tying him up.

Bullock's eyes followed the wall above the table. A piece of paper was pinned there, a single sheet of white printer paper, held in place by a rusty thumbtack. The paper was clean, unfolded, typed. He read the words aloud, his voice low and rough.

A beat. Then, beneath it, typed in bold: "—Bane."

The name hit him like a fist. Bane. The same word scrawled on the wall near the fire door. The same signature the intruder had left. But this—this was a message. Claiming responsibility. Arrogant. Deliberate.

Bullock's jaw tightened. He reached for the note, then stopped. Evidence. He'd need gloves. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket and snapped them on with practiced ease. Carefully, he unpinned the note and held it up to the light. Ordinary paper. Laser printer, probably from an office. No watermarks, no handwriting to analyze. But the phrasing—'For Gotham's own good'—that was new. Not a typical Bane message. The Bane he knew from crime scene reports was blunt, less theatrical. But then, the Bane he knew was also supposed to be dead or at least somewhere in the Amazon, not breaking into an abandoned asylum wing to kidnap its former director.

He slid the note into an evidence bag he pulled from his other pocket. Then he turned back to Arkham. The man's glasses were askew on his nose. Bullock gently adjusted them, then checked his pulse again. Steady. The tape over his mouth was tight; Bullock could see the skin around it was red. He'd leave it for now—don't disturb the scene until the techs arrive.

He stood and backed away from the chair, his eyes scanning the room one last time. The injector. The straps. The note. The unconscious doctor. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare—but it was real. Arkham was real. The straps were real. The name on the note was real.

Bullock's hand went to his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. No signal. Of course. The walls here were thick, lead-lined in places to contain the old X-ray machines. He'd have to move closer to the door, maybe into the corridor.

He stepped out of the room, his back to the wall, keeping the flashlight beam trained on the doorway. His phone flickered to life with one bar. He dialed the precinct's emergency line, his thumb pressing the numbers from memory.

It rang twice, then picked up. "GCPD dispatch, this is Detective Bullock. I'm in the abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum. I have a situation—code two. I need medical units and crime scene techs. Now."

His voice was steady, but his hand trembled slightly as he held the phone. He looked back at the room, at the unmoving figure in the chair, at the shadow of the injector on the table. The note was in his pocket, its words burning a hole through the evidence bag.

Bullock waited for the dispatcher's confirmation, then stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He didn't go back inside. Instead, he stood in the corridor, the flashlight beam casting a long silhouette of himself against the grimy wall. The silence pressed in again, but now it felt different. Not empty. Watchful.

He had a feeling he was only seeing the first piece of a much larger puzzle. And whoever had left that note wanted him to find it.

The flashlight beam cut a narrow cone through the darkness, illuminating peeling paint and cracked plaster. Harvey Bullock's footsteps echoed flatly off the walls, the sound swallowed by the dead air of the abandoned wing. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with doors that were either closed or hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. Dust motes danced in the light, and the smell was old—mold, dry rot, and something metallic, like old blood.

He moved slowly, deliberately, his right hand resting on the butt of his service revolver. The air was cold and still, pressing against his face. Every few steps he paused, tilting his head to listen. Silence. Thick, heavy silence that seemed to have weight. No hum of electricity, no distant traffic noise. Just the sound of his own breathing and the faint creak of his leather shoes on the linoleum floor.

The beam swept across a door frame where the wood was splintered near the lock. Fresh marks, pale wood showing through the old varnish. Not months old—days. He knelt, running his thumb over the jagged edge. Something had forced it open, or pried it. But the padlock on the fire door had been undone, not broken. Whoever had come here had keys—or someone had let them in.

He stood, wiping dust off his trousers. The corridor branched left and right ahead. He checked the file in his mind: the motion sensors had been triggered in a room near the end of this wing, according to Corrigan's logs. Second door on the right after the junction. Room 314, if the faded numbers above the doorframes were any guide.

Bullock turned right, his flashlight beam picking out a door that stood slightly ajar. Unlike the others, which were either closed or wide open, this one was cracked just an inch, a sliver of blackness beyond. The light reflected off the edge of what looked like a metal table inside. His pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the familiar jolt of a case breaking open. This was it.

He approached, keeping his footsteps quiet, though there was no one to hear him. The floor here was covered in a thin layer of grit, and he could see footprints—multiple sets, overlapping, heading in and out of that room. Shoe prints. Some with a tread pattern, others smooth-soled, like dress shoes. One set was particularly deep, the prints of a large, heavy man.

Bullock reached the door. He pressed his palm flat against the wood and pushed gently. The hinges groaned, a high-pitched whine that cut through the silence like a knife. He winced but kept pushing until the door swung open fully, revealing the room beyond.

The flashlight beam swept the space in a slow arc. It was a former treatment room—small, with a single barred window high on the far wall, the glass painted over decades ago. An examination table stood in the center, its leather surface cracked and stained. Metal cabinets lined one wall, their doors hanging open, empty. But it was what lay beyond the table that made Bullock stop breathing.

In the corner, partially hidden by a fallen cabinet, was a chair. Not just any chair—a straight-backed wooden chair with leather straps bolted to the arms and legs. And in that chair, slumped forward, was a man.

Bullock's flashlight fixed on the figure. White lab coat, dark suit, balding head. Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. Unconscious. His hands were bound to the armrests with nylon rope, his ankles similarly secured to the chair legs. His head hung forward, chin touching his chest. A strip of duct tape covered his mouth.

"Doc," Bullock muttered under his breath. He crossed the room quickly, his shoes scuffing on the grimy floor. He knelt beside the chair, setting the flashlight on the floor so it pointed upward, casting long shadows across Arkham's face. He reached out and pressed two fingers to the side of Arkham's neck, just below the jaw. Warm. A pulse. Steady, though a little fast. Alive.

Relief washed through him, but it was quickly replaced by a cold anger. Who the hell would do this? And why here, in the abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum, of all places?

He straightened, his knees popping. The beam of the flashlight didn't reach all corners of the room, so he pulled out his own small Maglite from his coat pocket and clicked it on, supplementing the larger light. He swept both beams across the room, looking for anything else—a weapon, a note, a clue.

That's when he saw the table.

Near the wall, just beside the chair, a small metal tray table stood, the kind used in hospitals for instruments. On it, something glinted. Bullock moved closer, his heart thudding. It was an injector—a sleek, silver-and-black device, about the size of a TV remote, with a needle protruding from one end. The reservoir was empty, but a faint residue glistened inside. A sedative? Something worse?

He didn't touch it. Instead, he traced the line of the needle's path. The angle would have been perfect for the chair. Someone had administered something to Arkham before—or after—tying him up.

Bullock's eyes followed the wall above the table. A piece of paper was pinned there, a single sheet of white printer paper, held in place by a rusty thumbtack. The paper was clean, unfolded, typed. He read the words aloud, his voice low and rough.

"For Gotham's own good."

A beat. Then, beneath it, typed in bold: "—Bane."

The name hit him like a fist. Bane. The same word scrawled on the wall near the fire door. The same signature the intruder had left. But this—this was a message. Claiming responsibility. Arrogant. Deliberate.

Bullock's jaw tightened. He reached for the note, then stopped. Evidence. He'd need gloves. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket and snapped them on with practiced ease. Carefully, he unpinned the note and held it up to the light. Ordinary paper. Laser printer, probably from an office. No watermarks, no handwriting to analyze. But the phrasing—'For Gotham's own good'—that was new. Not a typical Bane message. The Bane he knew from crime scene reports was blunt, less theatrical. But then, the Bane he knew was also supposed to be dead or at least somewhere in the Amazon, not breaking into an abandoned asylum wing to kidnap its former director.

He slid the note into an evidence bag he pulled from his other pocket. Then he turned back to Arkham. The man's glasses were askew on his nose. Bullock gently adjusted them, then checked his pulse again. Steady. The tape over his mouth was tight; Bullock could see the skin around it was red. He'd leave it for now—don't disturb the scene until the techs arrive.

But he had to call this in. Now.

He stood and backed away from the chair, his eyes scanning the room one last time. The injector. The straps. The note. The unconscious doctor. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare—but it was real. Arkham was real. The straps were real. The name on the note was real.

Bullock's hand went to his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. No signal. Of course. The walls here were thick, lead-lined in places to contain the old X-ray machines. He'd have to move closer to the door, maybe into the corridor.

He stepped out of the room, his back to the wall, keeping the flashlight beam trained on the doorway. His phone flickered to life with one bar. He dialed the precinct's emergency line, his thumb pressing the numbers from memory.

It rang twice, then picked up. "GCPD dispatch, this is Detective Bullock. I'm in the abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum. I have a situation—code two. I need medical units and crime scene techs. Now."

His voice was steady, but his hand trembled slightly as he held the phone. He looked back at the room, at the unmoving figure in the chair, at the shadow of the injector on the table. The note was in his pocket, its words burning a hole through the evidence bag.

"For Gotham's own good."

Bullock waited for the dispatcher's confirmation, then stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He didn't go back inside. Instead, he stood in the corridor, the flashlight beam casting a long silhouette of himself against the grimy wall. The silence pressed in again, but now it felt different. Not empty. Watchful.

He had a feeling he was only seeing the first piece of a much larger puzzle. And whoever had left that note wanted him to find it. «For Gotham's Own Good», part 3. Fanfiction — DC Universe.

The Discovery. For Gotham's Own Good — DC Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

The Discovery

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 — The Discovery

Part 3: The Discovery