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 bullpen was a swamp of noise and stale air. Harvey Bullock sat at his desk, a fortress of case files and cold coffee cups, his chair groaning under the weight of a man who had long since given up on comfort. The fluorescent lights hummed a tired hymn overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the cluttered surface. He was halfway through a report on a string of car thefts in the Diamond District—open-and-shut, mostly—when a shadow fell over the scrawled notes.

He didn't look up. He knew the gait, the deliberate weight of each step. Commissioner Gordon.

Bullock grunted, his pen still moving. He let the silence stretch, a small act of rebellion that never quite landed with the old man.

"My office," Gordon said. Not a question.

Bullock exhaled a long breath that smelled of cheap coffee and resignation. He capped his pen, set it down with a click that felt louder than it should. "What is it now?"

He straightened, his back popping in a familiar protest, and rose from the chair. The trench coat draped over the back of the chair smelled like rain and the streets. He shrugged it on, not bothering to button it, and followed Gordon across the bullpen. The conversation at the water cooler died for a moment as eyes followed them—Bullock knew the whispers, the bets on how long before he'd be called on the carpet. He didn't care.

Gordon's office was a glass box in the corner, the blinds half-drawn, offering a view of the city he'd sworn to protect. The desk was as cluttered as Bullock's, but with a different kind of chaos—memos, reports, a framed photo of his daughter. Gordon closed the door behind them, muffling the bullpen's din to a dull roar.

Bullock took a seat across the desk, not waiting for an invitation. He leaned back, the chair groaning in sympathy with its cousin outside. "So, what's so important it couldn't wait for my shift to end?"

Gordon didn't sit immediately. He stood at the window, his back to Bullock, hands clasped behind him. The pose of a man measuring words. "There was a break-in last night. At Arkham."

Bullock snorted. "Which wing? The one that's always being broken into?"

"The abandoned wing. The old surgical block."

That made Bullock sit up a little. The old wing had been sealed for years—condemned after the last riot. Even the rats had better sense than to squat there. "Who'd be stupid enough to go in there? Scavengers?"

"It wasn't random," Gordon said, finally turning. His face was drawn, shadows under his eyes that weren't there a week ago. "Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. Cut the power grid to that section—manual override, not digital. Disabled the seismic sensors. They were in and out before the night watch caught on."

Gordon walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He withdrew a slim file, olive-drab, and placed it on the blotter. The edges were worn. "That's the problem. We don't know yet. The inventory logs from that wing were destroyed—paper records, burned. And the electronic backups for that period were wiped eight years ago."

Bullock leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So we got a ghost job. Tools stolen, maybe weapons? Or something from Scarecrow's old stash?"

"I wish it were that simple." Gordon opened the file and slid out a photograph. He turned it around and pushed it across the desk. "This was left behind. Taped to the main door of the block."

Bullock picked up the photo. It showed a piece of printer paper, crudely taped to a metal door. The text was blocky, typed on an old manual typewriter by the look of the uneven keys: "FOR GOTHAM'S OWN GOOD." Below it, in a sharp, angular hand, was a signature: Bane.

For a long moment, the name sat in his gut like a stone. Bane. The name that had crawled out of the sewer a few years back and nearly broken the city. The name that meant chaos, brutality, and a ghost from a past Bullock had no interest in revisiting.

He set the photo down carefully, as if it might bite. "This is a joke. Some copycat."

"It's not. We've run the handwriting analysis. It matches the notes from the first incident—the one at the bank. Same pressure points, same angle on the descender of the 'e'. It's him."

Bullock rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension coil there. "Arkh... a break-in at an abandoned wing of Arkham? That doesn't sound like Bane. Too subtle. He's a sledgehammer, not a lockpick."

"Maybe he's changing patterns. Or maybe he's working with someone else." Gordon sat down, the chair creaking under his weight. His eyes were steady, that calm he wore like armor. "I need you on this, Harvey."

"No." The word came out before he thought it. "No, no, no. I've got a caseload that's stacking up, and I don't do ghosts. This is a job for the feds, or the task force. I'm a detective on the streets, not an archeologist."

"You're the best I've got for this," Gordon said, his voice low and even. "You know the city. You've dealt with Bane's people before. And you've got a stubborn streak that doesn't quit."

"That's called a drinking habit, commissioner." Bullock tried a grin, but it felt wrong on his face. "I'm not the man for this. Find someone younger. Someone who still believes in heroes."

"I'm not asking you to be a hero." Gordon's gaze didn't waver. "I'm asking you to follow the trail. See where it leads. If it's a dead end, we walk away. But I can't let this sit. Not after what's happening."

Bullock looked at the photo again. Bane's signature was a jagged scar on the paper. The note said "For Gotham's own good." It sounded like a promise—or a threat. The memory of the first time he'd seen Bane's handiwork flickered through his mind: a bombed-out precinct, the smell of blood and cordite. He'd been lucky to walk away from that. Luckier than some.

He felt the familiar weight of duty settling on his shoulders, cold and inevitable. He didn't want it. He wanted to go back to the car thefts, to the simple grind of the city's daily rot. But Gordon was right, dammit. Bullock knew the city's shadows better than most.

"What's the case file look like?" he asked, his voice flat.

Gordon slid the olive file across the desk. "Everything we've got. It's not much. The footprints at the scene—size twelve, work boots, likely military surplus. A partial fingerprint on a pipe, but it didn't hit any databases. And the note. That's all."

Bullock took the file, weighing it in his hands. It was thin, lighter than it should be. He flipped it open, scanning the first page—crime scene photos of a dark corridor, a door with the note taped to it, a broken lock. The images were grainy, taken in low light.

"Tomorrow morning. I've cleared your schedule. You'll have a vehicle from the motor pool."

'"You'll have a uniformed officer for the perimeter. But inside, it's just you. The fewer people who know, the better."

Bullock closed the file and stood up. The chair gave a final squeak. "I'm not promising anything."

"I'm not asking you to promise." Gordon stood as well, holding out a hand. For a moment, Bullock hesitated, then took it. The handshake was firm, too firm, as if Gordon were trying to transfer some of his own resolve.

Bullock tucked the file under his arm and walked to the door. He paused, his hand on the handle. "You know this could be nothing. A prank by some wannabe."

"If it's nothing, I'll buy you a drink. If it's something... we'll worry about that when it comes."

Bullock grunted. "I'll hold you to that." He opened the door and stepped out into the bullpen. The noise hit him again—phones ringing, a printer spitting paper, two uniforms arguing over a case. He walked back to his desk, feeling the eyes on him again. He didn't care. He grabbed his gloves from the drawer, pulled them on, and took his coat fully.

The case file was a dead weight in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, the olive drab cover smudged with dirt. Bane. The name pulsed in his skull like a bad tooth. He didn't want to walk into that hole. But he would, because the commissioner had a way of making a man believe that one more step could change things.

He grunted, a low sound of resignation, and turned toward the exit. He didn't look back. He could feel Gordon's gaze on him from the glass office, a beacon of tired hope. Bullock pushed through the double doors and into the corridor, the bullpen's noise fading behind him.

The hallway was empty, white walls and gray linoleum. His footsteps echoed, measured and steady. He didn't know what he'd find at Arkham. Maybe nothing. Maybe the start of something worse. But for now, he had a file, a note, and a city that never stopped needing him.

He headed toward the stairs, the case file under his arm, the weight of another case settling into his bones.

The bullpen was a swamp of noise and stale air. Harvey Bullock sat at his desk, a fortress of case files and cold coffee cups, his chair groaning under the weight of a man who had long since given up on comfort. The fluorescent lights hummed a tired hymn overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the cluttered surface. He was halfway through a report on a string of car thefts in the Diamond District—open-and-shut, mostly—when a shadow fell over the scrawled notes.

He didn't look up. He knew the gait, the deliberate weight of each step. Commissioner Gordon.

"Harvey."

Bullock grunted, his pen still moving. He let the silence stretch, a small act of rebellion that never quite landed with the old man.

"My office," Gordon said. Not a question.

Bullock exhaled a long breath that smelled of cheap coffee and resignation. He capped his pen, set it down with a click that felt louder than it should. "What is it now?"

"Just come inside."

He straightened, his back popping in a familiar protest, and rose from the chair. The trench coat draped over the back of the chair smelled like rain and the streets. He shrugged it on, not bothering to button it, and followed Gordon across the bullpen. The conversation at the water cooler died for a moment as eyes followed them—Bullock knew the whispers, the bets on how long before he'd be called on the carpet. He didn't care.

Gordon's office was a glass box in the corner, the blinds half-drawn, offering a view of the city he'd sworn to protect. The desk was as cluttered as Bullock's, but with a different kind of chaos—memos, reports, a framed photo of his daughter. Gordon closed the door behind them, muffling the bullpen's din to a dull roar.

Bullock took a seat across the desk, not waiting for an invitation. He leaned back, the chair groaning in sympathy with its cousin outside. "So, what's so important it couldn't wait for my shift to end?"

Gordon didn't sit immediately. He stood at the window, his back to Bullock, hands clasped behind him. The pose of a man measuring words. "There was a break-in last night. At Arkham."

Bullock snorted. "Which wing? The one that's always being broken into?"

"The abandoned wing. The old surgical block."

That made Bullock sit up a little. The old wing had been sealed for years—condemned after the last riot. Even the rats had better sense than to squat there. "Who'd be stupid enough to go in there? Scavengers?"

"It wasn't random," Gordon said, finally turning. His face was drawn, shadows under his eyes that weren't there a week ago. "Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. Cut the power grid to that section—manual override, not digital. Disabled the seismic sensors. They were in and out before the night watch caught on."

"So what'd they take?"

Gordon walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He withdrew a slim file, olive-drab, and placed it on the blotter. The edges were worn. "That's the problem. We don't know yet. The inventory logs from that wing were destroyed—paper records, burned. And the electronic backups for that period were wiped eight years ago."

Bullock leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So we got a ghost job. Tools stolen, maybe weapons? Or something from Scarecrow's old stash?"

"I wish it were that simple." Gordon opened the file and slid out a photograph. He turned it around and pushed it across the desk. "This was left behind. Taped to the main door of the block."

Bullock picked up the photo. It showed a piece of printer paper, crudely taped to a metal door. The text was blocky, typed on an old manual typewriter by the look of the uneven keys: "FOR GOTHAM'S OWN GOOD." Below it, in a sharp, angular hand, was a signature: Bane.

For a long moment, the name sat in his gut like a stone. Bane. The name that had crawled out of the sewer a few years back and nearly broken the city. The name that meant chaos, brutality, and a ghost from a past Bullock had no interest in revisiting.

He set the photo down carefully, as if it might bite. "This is a joke. Some copycat."

"It's not. We've run the handwriting analysis. It matches the notes from the first incident—the one at the bank. Same pressure points, same angle on the descender of the 'e'. It's him."

Bullock rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tension coil there. "Arkh... a break-in at an abandoned wing of Arkham? That doesn't sound like Bane. Too subtle. He's a sledgehammer, not a lockpick."

"Maybe he's changing patterns. Or maybe he's working with someone else." Gordon sat down, the chair creaking under his weight. His eyes were steady, that calm he wore like armor. "I need you on this, Harvey."

"No." The word came out before he thought it. "No, no, no. I've got a caseload that's stacking up, and I don't do ghosts. This is a job for the feds, or the task force. I'm a detective on the streets, not an archeologist."

"You're the best I've got for this," Gordon said, his voice low and even. "You know the city. You've dealt with Bane's people before. And you've got a stubborn streak that doesn't quit."

"That's called a drinking habit, commissioner." Bullock tried a grin, but it felt wrong on his face. "I'm not the man for this. Find someone younger. Someone who still believes in heroes."

"I'm not asking you to be a hero." Gordon's gaze didn't waver. "I'm asking you to follow the trail. See where it leads. If it's a dead end, we walk away. But I can't let this sit. Not after what's happening."

Bullock looked at the photo again. Bane's signature was a jagged scar on the paper. The note said "For Gotham's own good." It sounded like a promise—or a threat. The memory of the first time he'd seen Bane's handiwork flickered through his mind: a bombed-out precinct, the smell of blood and cordite. He'd been lucky to walk away from that. Luckier than some.

He felt the familiar weight of duty settling on his shoulders, cold and inevitable. He didn't want it. He wanted to go back to the car thefts, to the simple grind of the city's daily rot. But Gordon was right, dammit. Bullock knew the city's shadows better than most.

"What's the case file look like?" he asked, his voice flat.

Gordon slid the olive file across the desk. "Everything we've got. It's not much. The footprints at the scene—size twelve, work boots, likely military surplus. A partial fingerprint on a pipe, but it didn't hit any databases. And the note. That's all."

Bullock took the file, weighing it in his hands. It was thin, lighter than it should be. He flipped it open, scanning the first page—crime scene photos of a dark corridor, a door with the note taped to it, a broken lock. The images were grainy, taken in low light.

"You want me to go out there?" he said.

"Tomorrow morning. I've cleared your schedule. You'll have a vehicle from the motor pool."

"What about backup?"

'"You'll have a uniformed officer for the perimeter. But inside, it's just you. The fewer people who know, the better."

Bullock closed the file and stood up. The chair gave a final squeak. "I'm not promising anything."

"I'm not asking you to promise." Gordon stood as well, holding out a hand. For a moment, Bullock hesitated, then took it. The handshake was firm, too firm, as if Gordon were trying to transfer some of his own resolve.

Bullock tucked the file under his arm and walked to the door. He paused, his hand on the handle. "You know this could be nothing. A prank by some wannabe."

"If it's nothing, I'll buy you a drink. If it's something... we'll worry about that when it comes."

Bullock grunted. "I'll hold you to that." He opened the door and stepped out into the bullpen. The noise hit him again—phones ringing, a printer spitting paper, two uniforms arguing over a case. He walked back to his desk, feeling the eyes on him again. He didn't care. He grabbed his gloves from the drawer, pulled them on, and took his coat fully.

The case file was a dead weight in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, the olive drab cover smudged with dirt. Bane. The name pulsed in his skull like a bad tooth. He didn't want to walk into that hole. But he would, because the commissioner had a way of making a man believe that one more step could change things.

He grunted, a low sound of resignation, and turned toward the exit. He didn't look back. He could feel Gordon's gaze on him from the glass office, a beacon of tired hope. Bullock pushed through the double doors and into the corridor, the bullpen's noise fading behind him.

The hallway was empty, white walls and gray linoleum. His footsteps echoed, measured and steady. He didn't know what he'd find at Arkham. Maybe nothing. Maybe the start of something worse. But for now, he had a file, a note, and a city that never stopped needing him.

He headed toward the stairs, the case file under his arm, the weight of another case settling into his bones. «For Gotham's Own Good», part 1. Fanfiction — DC Universe.

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

The Call

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 Call

Part 1: The Call