"Natasha."
The sand was black under her feet. It was a strange feeling, watching it be shaped by an invisible ocean. Momentary ripples, long snakes that meandered under the beach, were washed away and then replaced, but there was no water moving them. No, definitely no water. Although she could not say for certain, Natasha felt that whatever was moving the sand was not physical at all. It was like - she puzzled over the words for it in her head for a few seconds - like a collection of ideas. Little tiny thoughts that hooked together, swimming through the air until they formed an ocean, and sweeping the grains into curves.
For a reason that did not cement itself in her mind, the spy reached out her hand. The ideas that shaped the coastline did not become clearer.
A question floated into Natasha's head. It was not quite her own, she thought, and its answer inferred that it was rhetorical, but she felt that it wasn't part of the sea in front of her.
"WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE WATER IS GONE?" it asked. In her mind, it appeared in uppercase. "IT IS REPLACED BY IDEAS. IDEAS AND HEAT."
And sure enough, that was what she saw before her. In as much as an idea can be described - a haze of emotion, of before and after, of now - that was what rolled over the sand. It filled little dips in the beach, little puddles of concept nestled into the dark, and Natasha could feel it lapping at her legs as she cautiously advanced.
"THE HEAT." the Question reminded her, as if she were a child whose mind had wandered off from a task. It was indeed hot, although not particularly unpleasant. Despite the sand resembling charcoal, very little of it was scorched, and although warm, the spy was certain the heat had not reached the point of fire. But this troubled her. It was hot enough for a fire to start, she was sure. Fire needed fuel. There might be no water, but there would be some sort of fuel somewhere. What else?
Oxygen.
And it became apparent, that there was no oxygen slipping into her lungs. Natasha stumbled back from the ocean and gripped her throat. It felt suddenly empty, although some kind of force stopped her from choking. There was an air here, but it did not give her the satisfaction of that of what she was used to. Her mind found the time to provide a list of how much of her body needed oxygen, the release of energy rather dominating the top. Indeed, without it, her cells would not function.
Then how was she -
"MOVING? HOW DOES ONE DESCRIBE THE EXPERIENCE OF THE IMPOSSIBLE?"
Her conclusion was that she was just being illogical. After all, she could provide no proof that there was no oxygen. Her feet could traverse the sand, and arm could extend outward; her cells were working. There was no proof!
"WATER IS JUST OXYGEN WITH HYDROGEN IN TOW."
The Question was annoying her. It was telling her she was wrong, in a subtle manner, but (and most annoyingly) after she had told herself she was wrong in the first place. The spy felt the sand move around her feet, and realised that the tide was coming in. Adjusting to the air again, she took a step backwards and looked up. But there was nothing to look up to. That is, she could not decipher what was there. Suddenly, much as the lack of oxygen had suddenly become apparent, the lack of light had too. She knew that the sand was black, and if you asked her, she could describe reflections bounding off those tiny bits of quartz - but she could not see it. Though she did not mean to allow it, panic nibbled at her bones, as all perception of the world around her suddenly fell. The feeling of death enveloped what used to be the beach, and the sand around her scattered until it left her standing alone, on the purest of nothingness.
"Natasha."
This was not the Question, she was sure. It did not advertise itself in caps, for one.
"Natasha."
Darkness dug its way into her head, and the air (though not containing the oxygen that she craved) was cruelly drawn out from her lungs. The softened, curious feeling from when she had first walked in was replaced by fear and loneliness, coupled with immense discomfort as she could not bring herself to breathe. Then, to her surprise, she could see again. Her eyes were slits forcing against the calling of her name, but they could single out what it was. Though it was recognition that greeted her, a name for the thing did not find its way inside of her mind. Her hand reached out again, and was met with a cold touch. She pulled it closer, as if it existed at the end of a rope, and then, in a fit of anger and oxygen-deprived thoughts, she extended her fingers and ripped out its essence. The lack of oxygen, suddenly important, flicked a distant switch in her brain. The slits of her vision slammed shut and her body dropped to the floor.
Natasha violently awoke in Clint's arms, drawing in a chestful of air with considerable force. When she realised that the scream she had let out was rather meek, she opened her mouth to try again, but found only thin gasps would come to her lips.
"You're okay, you're okay!" Clint assured her, holding her close to his chest. A faint thought pulsed in her mind, one that she was developing for the Question. 'No, the ocean was not made of water.' she would tell it. 'But, an ocean is not always water - it can be any liquid. A sea of mercury requires no oxygen, and so, the lack of substance for ocean does not prove that there is no oxygen."
"Nat? You're okay, alright?"
She tried not to struggle. Eventually, she pushed back off of his chest and met his gaze.
"What was it this time?" he whispered, with genuine interest. But his words were said gently, with caution. He invited a response, and watched her carefully, to see if he might have to read her in some other way. But her eyes drilled into the back of his head, a sense of fear and desperation locking on and closing in, and Clint had the feeling that she had shifted into another Natasha. Though her breaths were still shaky, her body was now eerily still. And those eyes, those damn eyes again, sparked fiercely with the bright orange of determined fury.
She swallowed strongly before she spoke.
"I walked into another world. The planet was dead, but the darkness was calling my name." She did not break eye contact, and Clint's eyes flicked from side to side to try and read the subtext of what she was saying. "I walked further. There was no sound but the calling, deep and heavy. There was no oxygen for my lungs. There was no light for my eyes."
For a little while, she was silent. Clint shuffled uneasily.
"And then I stared into the blackness. And it stared back at me. And I reached out, and tore its heart from its body and threw it to the floor." There was no emotion in her voice. Her speech, a short, monotonous soliloquy, shrivelled away and left the room with a sigh.
Although she was finished, her eyes stayed unmoving. Clint touched her shoulders tentatively, and she shivered.
"Is it gone?" he asked as her gaze found its way to the floor. She was motionless for a moment, then sighed shakily and ran her fingers through her hair.
Okay, so that was a little snippet of something I had an idea about.
If you'd like me to write more, please let me know!