A/N: This is the first in a series of shorts inspired by music. I loved the title "Little Black Submarines" for the collection, so I centered the first short on that song. These will range from canon to AU, and while most will center on Soul and Maka, they will occasionally feature other characters. If you give me a song suggestion, I may or may not use it depending on whether or not it sparks an idea. These are not song fics, simply song inspired; I wanted to do a drabble collection to work out smaller ideas, and I thought one inspired by music seemed fitting for Soul Eater. I hope you enjoy them.

Neither "Little Black Submarines" nor Soul Eater belong to me. Happy reading.

Little Black Submarines:

Little black submarines
Operator please
Put me back on the line
Told my girl I'd be back
Operator please
This is wreckin' my mind

The truth was, he wasn't sure whether or not he was dead. He would fall asleep only to wake up in another dream or vision or memory or nightmare or sometimes just the black void he was stuck in now, a wasteland of nothing and no one. Was this what death looked like? Was it heaven? Surely not. Hell, then. It had to be hell, because where else would he see that? He'd never believed he was a bad person. Maybe crude sometimes. Maybe selfish plenty. But he also fought kishin and helped to protect people. He'd also given his life for his meister, and he knew she wasn't a bad person—she was probably the best person he knew. Didn't that count for something?

Apparently not. Maybe he hadn't saved her, maybe that was the problem. She hadn't run, the idiot. He knew she hadn't run and so she was probably dead, too. She was dead, he had failed, and here he was, stuck in hell or limbo or his own head, who could tell the difference? Did the difference really matter anyway? Whether one or none of these were true, he was still trapped.

How long had he even been here? It felt like days, maybe, but he didn't know, couldn't tell, and the visions made it even harder. It could have been a lifetime or a few moments for all he really knew. He just wanted out, to know at the very least that she was okay, that he didn't fail, that for once in his miserable life he had done something right. Because, yeah, maybe his life was worth less than shit, but hers wasn't and he wanted to know that he hadn't fucked that up, too. Maybe he'd never been much of a pianist, never been able to match up to the great Evans name, but he sure as shit wasn't going to fail as a weapon.

Except he had, right? Isn't that what that dream was, the one he kept having, the one where he kept tearing out of Maka? That had to be it. She had to be dead, they both had to be dead. Even as a weapon he was a fuckup. Some cool guy he had turned out to be. Cool guys, cool weapons, were able to protect their partners. All he had done is died for nothing.

Maybe this was Limbo after all. The visions of his childhood weren't so bad. Sure, they reminded him of what an utter failure he had always been, but he loved his brother, he loved his grandmother, hell, he even loved his micromanaging, overprotective, perfectionist parents. His life hadn't been so bad, not really. Okay, it had been boring and tedious and he'd always felt like a distant second to his brother, never good enough, valued only for being an Evans and his lackluster potential on the piano, but never just for being Soul. There was that. There were reasons, good reasons, why finding out he was a weapon had been his golden ticket out. And being a weapon, that was great. He was a good weapon, not a failure. He and Maka had collected 99 souls—he had been a hairsbreadth from becoming a Death Scythe if not for Blair. He kicked ass as a scythe, didn't he? Only he didn't, not really, because he had fucked up and here he was. Maybe this was where all weapons went who couldn't quite hack it, who fucked up so astronomically, who failed to protect their meisters. Not cool. Not cool at all.

For the thirtieth or maybe the thirty thousandth time, he screamed his frustration. He needed to get out of here. He hated it here, hated waiting for the next memory or nightmare, hated the loneliness of it, wanted to see Maka and make sure she was okay. This uncertainty, this total isolation, it really was hell, wasn't it?

"So," he was startled, no shocked, to find another person speaking. "You want out, do you?"

"Who the hell?" he whipped around in the void, looking for the source of that strange, grating voice. This had to be another vision because he was always alone in the void.

"Where are you?" He cried out.

"Right behind you," and the voice did sound close. He whipped around and suddenly the void wasn't a void and standing in front of him was, perhaps, the oddest creature he'd ever seen and he'd seen a thing or two what with fighting so many kishin. It had a huge red head, and sharp, sharp teeth. It looked like a demon. Only, oddly, it was wearing a suit. Ah. So this really was hell. Apparently, hell needed an interior decorator because the checkered floor, heavy curtains, and worn furniture were tacky and dated. He heard some bad jazz start to play and figured everything in hell would be subpar. It was hell.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm you," the red thing said with a vicious, toothy smile. "In a manner of speaking."

"You don't look like me and I'm pretty sure I don't talk to myself."

"Ah, but you do now, it seems. Would you feel better if we looked more alike?"

"No." The demon-thing shrugged in response.

"Suit yourself. It's not really the point, anyway. The point is that you said you wanted out of here. You do, right?"

"Of course I do. Who the hell would want to be stuck in this tacky shithole?"

"Well, then. I'm going to help you out, for free, just this once. After all, if you don't wake up, it will be impossible for us to go any further. So. Wake up."

"That's…" He blinked. Once. Twice. The tacky room was gone, along with the demon, and the black void was back. Only, this was different. This time, he couldn't see his body.

"…What?" But he could feel it. Oh sweet Shinigami could he feel it.

"It hurts…" he heard his non-voice echo. This was worse, far worse. The void with no body, was this even the same place? The void had a floor of sorts. He could walk. He was whole and intact. He here was… just a voice, floating, drifting.

"Help me…" he was desperate. Even that demon was better than this.

"Which way is up and which is way is down?" He had to find some place, any place, find himself, his body, his life. Was there…

"A light? The exit!?" This felt familiar, but not. Like those visions, but different.

"No, Stop!" He heard it, someone else, not the demon.

"A voice! It's a voice! Maka's voice!" This was different. He had no body. He couldn't hurt her, not like those visions, no, not like that. If he could only see her, know she was okay…

"Wait for me! I'm coming right now!" He reached out and saw a hand, his hand, in the light. No, no… too late…!

"Soul!" The voice shrieked, panicked. "Noooooo!"

"Maka!" It was happening again, he was tearing out of her, tearing her apart.

"AHHHHHHHH!" He screamed, they both screamed. Then, he felt a hand. He saw light. He opened his eyes. Her saw her, whole and intact, a look of concern clear on her face, bent over him. Relief flooded him and he laughed. He couldn't help it. It was different, it was okay. It was ridiculous. So he laughed.

"Soul…" Her voice was questioning, concerned.

"I'm fine. I just had a bad dream is all." And it was true. Even as he felt the pain searing through him and had to fight back a grimace, he really was fine. Just fine. He hadn't been dead. She was alive, he was alive, it was fine. Unless he fell asleep and woke up to find this was yet another stupid vision, it was really, really fine. That little demon shit had told the truth. He saw the doctor, Medusa, hovering over him and she said something, who cared what. Maka just looked relieved.

It was over and he wasn't a failure. He wasn't in limbo or hell or his head. He had saved his meister. Cool.