Naruto and all characters found therein are (c) Masashi Kishimoto

Zombie is (c) The Cranberries, Dolores O'Riordan

Another head hangs lowly,

Child is slowly taken

Kisame lifted a hand to signal the bartender, and watched with a detached sort of compulsory interest as the young brunette brought another bottle of warmed sake to him. Something in the way her dark eyes flashed warily as he reached for the bottle reminded him of his most recent mission in a small village off the coast in the land of Rivers; a mission that happened to require that no survivors be left behind.

He couldn't say he hated missions like this, if anyone were to bother asking. No one ever did, though. And it wasn't as if he would ever raise any complaints, of course. Pain would probably terminate his contract if Kisame were to start asking the dangerous "Why" questions. By 'terminate,' he means he'd get about a kilometer away from the base before someone (more likely a group of people, a large group) was given the troublesome task of erasing him from this plane of existence. He had to crack a smirk at that thought. 'Good luck.'

He wouldn't consider himself cocky by any means – he knew he had the skills to back up any boastful claim. And it was because of his skills and nearly endless chakra reserves that Pain typically chose him to take on the grim responsibility of erasing groups of people and/or an entire village from the map.

Kisame reached again for the bottle of sake, pouring it slowly into the small cup he had drained a couple dozen times by now, but before the cup was filled, he noticed the small blood stain on his wrist. He blinked slowly, inwardly struggling to forget precisely who that small stain belonged to (because he could also boast an incredible memory, and a killer like him could remember the faces of nearly every victim he's ever taken).

He had killed at least fifteen people between their teenaged and senior years before he'd had to face the children. The first one is always the hardest, steeling your nerves to keep from imagining what a waste this death is about to be, about how many years this little boy could have lived, how many children he could've fathered when he got older. And despite the hundreds of children Kisame had already murdered in his career as a shinobi, he could never quite keep himself from thinking the thoughts that always made him hesitate.

This boy couldn't have been more than four years old, and Kisame forced his face to remain still and to not display the guilt he already felt as he watched the child piss his pants in sheer terror. The tiniest spark of paternal instinct urged him to wipe the tears from his face and the snot from the kid's nose as it collected and ran across his lips and into his mouth as he cried pitifully at the sight that Kisame could only imagine he was presenting.

It was always at this time he was presented with the question of which weapon to use, and he hated that he even had to pick. He rarely used Samehada on children, and told himself the reason was that they barely had any chakra for her to feed on. Really it was because it was a slow death, being drained of chakra, and children shouldn't have to suffer the way he was making everyone else suffer.

So instead of bringing Samehada into contact with the boy's skin to watch as the life slowly and painfully leaked out of him, Kisame hefted the sword back into place on his back and pulled a kunai from a pouch attached to his thigh. One quick slice across the boy's tiny throat and a couple seconds later, the child lay dead at his feet, another innocent victim's blood staining his already dirty hands.

He'd say he lost count of how many children he had to kill that day, but really the number would haunt him for the rest of his life. Twenty three children died by his hands.

"—alright? Sir?"

Kisame snapped his focus back to the present, whipping his gaze from his wrist to the young bartender as she brought a slightly stained towel to the lip of the bottle he was still holding. In his daze, Kisame had spilled a good amount on the counter as the cup overflowed.

"I'm fine," he replied softly, taking the towel from her hands and wiping the small puddle of sake from the counter.

"Long day?" she asked, and he had to give her credit for only the slight quaver in her voice as she tried valiantly to force a conversation with him. Not many civilians seemed willing to try, these days.

He ran a hand through his dirty hair for a brief moment before realizing that he probably had blood in there as well, and then slowly brought his hand back to the counter. "You could say that."

And the violence caused such silence,

Who are we mistaking?

Bringing the cup to his lips and tossing it back, Kisame couldn't help but think of how silent the village was after he had finished. What one would normally consider a blessed peace after all the commotion was nothing but an empty hole in the world to him.

And it wasn't like he really minded the killing. He never really had, if he was honest with himself. He had chosen to become a shinobi at an early age, mostly because he wanted the other children his age to be afraid of him for a good reason as opposed to because of his features.

The silence of the bar was preferable to the unnatural silence of that village, and this too was something he had found out early in his career. He'd never been one for loud noises, and so would usually search out a bar that didn't see many customers, or arrive at a time in which the majority of them wouldn't think to visit.

This bar was located in Amegakure, and he had become a somewhat regular customer. The brunette was not someone he recognized, however. Not that he ever took time to chat up the bartenders.

"It's not raining, for once," she commented, and Kisame noticed that she was fiddling with her fingers in a nervous gesture. He nodded his head as he poured another cup of sake.

A few moments of tense silence passed, and while Kisame didn't enjoy conversation, he did appreciate the noise. He was so tired of the stillness that came with every kill, the feeling of holding your breath because things must have been paused, not ended.

He didn't realize he was focusing so much on the lack of sound that when the bartender took a breath to prepare for another failed attempt at starting a conversation, Kisame quickly turned his gaze back to hers, startling her and making her avert her eyes.

"I-I'm sorry," she said, an awkward smile on her lightly glossed lips. "I'm new to this. Not used to how quiet everything is."

Kisame threw back some sake and lowered his gaze, trying not to compare the peaceful silence of the bar and the dead silence of the village. "Yeah, it's pretty quiet in here," he agreed, figuring that perhaps a little conversation will take his mind off the little freckled girl whose neck he had snapped as she tried to run.

"So," the bartender stated, turning around to busy herself with drying some glasses. "Are you a ninja?" she asked, tossing a quick glance over her shoulder.

Kisame smirked into his cup, voicing the sarcastic reply running in his mind, "What gave you that idea?"

She shrugged, and Kisame watched the smooth fabric of her shirt bunch at her neck as the muscles of her shoulders contracted in the simple motion. "Aside from the mesh you're wearing and the blood on your shirt… not much. Just a hunch." She sent a small smile over her shoulder as she reached for another glass, and Kisame shook his head slightly as he poured himself another cup.

What she said next had him look up sharply in surprise as he cup paused halfway to his mouth.

"Thanks for your service, by the way."

But you see, it's not me, it's not my family

In your head, in your head they are fighting

He couldn't help but respond with a blank stare, and the bartender, picking up on his confused silence, turned around as she dried another glass. "I saw your headband before you took it off. The only ninja around here are Akatsuki, and Akatsuki protect this city. We haven't seen war on our streets since before I was born, and it's because of you. So, thanks."

Kisame blinked slowly as he digested her civilian point of view. He couldn't help but think, 'Damn, you're stupid. You wouldn't be thanking me if your family was on the hit list.'

Still, the naivety of one civilian girl was a little refreshing, and Kisame had a brief moment of gratitude that she didn't truly know what went on outside of her cozy little life. He had moments himself where he wished that he had grown up in a less volatile country, where he could have retained his innocence well past his early childhood.

So, because he didn't particularly feel like going into graphic detail of what it was he actually did, he nodded minutely and tossed back another cup of his sake.

"You've got quite the tolerance there, don't you?" the bartender mentioned with a slight chuckle.

Kisame allowed a small smirk to reach his lips as he poured himself another cup. "It ain't easy to get drunk, that's for sure," he replied, bringing the drink to his lips and allowing his focus to drift off again.

With their tanks, and their bombs,

And their bombs, and their guns.

In your head, in your head, they are crying…

He found that he was drinking more and more as he got older. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he was beginning to notice that he was using alcohol as a sort of crutch when he couldn't get the memories to leave him alone. He couldn't seem to get the screaming, the bloodshed, and the crying – always the crying – out of his head for more than a few minutes at a time some days, while others he could manage to make it through without even once thinking of a single pair of wide, glassy eyes as the kunai came down…

He took another swig of sake.

And he'd never say it to anyone – not even Itachi – but he was beginning to hate it. He was beginning to hate the adrenaline rush he got when he would chase down another nameless victim, the fear that he used to feed off of like some sick leech. Most of all, he was beginning to hate being told by someone to go out and snuff the lives of innocents for some unknown reason, a reason that he wasn't even allowed to question.

In your head, in your head,

Zombie, zombie, zombie.

What's in your head, in your head,

Zombie, zombie, zombie?

If Kisame was completely honest with himself, he'd admit that he actually didn't like any sort of killing as much as he pretended, especially when he wasn't exactly at war with anyone. The great nations were holding a tenuous alliance; not necessarily friends, but definitely not enemies by any means. In fact, the organization that he currently took orders from was the entity that was stirring the pot, causing chaos and fear to spread like a plague every time a tailed beast was abducted.

The saddest part, he realized, was that he could technically defect from the Akatsuki if he didn't like them so much (and he really wasn't overly fond of them). He could potentially just pack up his belongings, hightail it out of the country of Rain and live a peaceful life without kill orders somewhere far away, preferably surrounded by water. He always had enjoyed fishing…

The only problem with that plan was that he had a nice bounty on his head, and if he were to leave Akatsuki and actually make it out of the country, that bounty would probably double. There's no way he'd be able to lead a peaceful existence. Some idiot would spot him and think to make some quick cash by bringing his severed head to the nearest collection station, said idiot would then be killed, and Kisame would have to move again. He didn't exactly mind moving around, though.

The real reason he couldn't bring himself to leave was probably because of his own guilt. Why should he get a second chance at a better life if the hundreds of children he's killed will never get that? Why should he be happy after what he's done to ruin so many lives?

He poured another cup.

Another mother's breaking

Heart is taken over.

When the violence causes silence,

We must be mistaken.

He happened to look out the window to his right in time to see a young mother chase her small son down the sidewalk, arms outstretched. Unbidden, the memory of another child falling under his blade hit him full force, and he closed his eyes in vain as the empty look in the little girl's eyes flashed through his mind's eye.

She fell limply to the ground just as her mother came skidding around the corner of the building. The look on the woman's face as she recognized the child as her own was something that Kisame knew would never leave him. She completely ignored the danger he presented and ran forward, a wordless scream of anguish ripping out of her mouth. Kisame allowed her to gather the body of the little girl into her arms before he swiftly drew the blade across her throat and watched her fall forward, her hands still clutching the dirty yukata of her child.

He didn't allow himself to linger for too long, the silence of the dead already pounding in his head as he made his way back into the heart of the village toward the few that remained.

It's the same old theme since 1916:

In your head, in your head they're still fighting

With their tanks, and their bombs,

And their bombs, and their guns.

In your head, in your head, they are dying…

"You sure you're okay?" the bartender asked, and Kisame almost jumped at the sudden noise as her voice ripped him away from his dark thoughts.

"What?" he asked intelligently, before realizing what she had said and bringing the heels of his hands up to rest his forehead against them. "It's nothing," he said, letting out a slow breath as he tried to clear his mind.

He could feel the bartender's stare as she paused in her task of organizing the shelves. Sighing as he realized she must be one of those overly-friendly types that try to make everything better, he brought his arms to rest on the countertop. "Just a really bad day, that's all," he offered, reaching to pour another cup for himself.

She leaned back against one of the shelves in front of him and crossed her arms casually. "Do you need someone to talk to?"

Kisame chuckled at that. "Trust me, sweetheart, you don't wanna hear it."

She laughed. "I've worked as a bartender before, and let me tell you, I've heard plenty I didn't wanna hear. I don't mind though, because I know sometimes it helps. Getting drunk doesn't solve anything, but sometimes talking does."

Kisame took another swig of sake, letting it sit in his mouth and slosh over his tongue and the bitter flavor seep into his taste buds. Swallowing thickly, he looked down at his hands and dirt encrusted fingernails. Instead of telling her about what was troubling him, he asked, "Ever thought about becoming a ninja?"

She blinked a couple times, obviously thrown by the unexpected question and replied, "Once or twice when I was younger. I'm too old to start now, and honestly I don't think I have the stomach for it."

Kisame nodded. "You don't have the stomach for what's on my mind, then." He looked up as he took another sip, noticing her disappointed expression. "Thanks, though."

Truth be told, he wished he could tell someone. If he did though, he'd have to kill her, and Kisame was really reluctant to add another person to the list of sixty-two people he'd already killed that day. And he was sick of killing, sick of death and the overwhelming scent of blood that seemed to cling to his skin and his clothing. Sick of ripping away the potential of hundreds of innocent children just because he was told to do it. Sick of the memories that wouldn't leave him alone the second he had a chance to sit and wind down. Sick of the images of dirty little feet and tiny blood-stained bodies strewn across the battlefields of his mind.

He threw back another mouthful of sake.

He was sick of taking orders that didn't make sense, of not knowing whether there was just cause to be murdering so many innocents or if this was some sick mind game Pain was playing to see when he'd break.

He'd never break, of course. He was a well-oiled machine at this point, doing whatever he was told without question and (most of the time) without thinking. However, that didn't mean he was without guilt or conscience. Sometimes he wished he was.

The bottle was empty now, and he was beginning to feel a bit of a buzz coming on. He tried not to equate the empty porcelain of the bottle with the empty bodies left back in that small village, but was unable to stop the thought (and the resulting images of broken children) from crossing his mind. He was left with a choice, then. To stay and order another bottle – which would involve a one hundred percent chance of remembering what happened earlier that day, and approximately a ninety-five percent chance of having to suffer through stilted conversation with the bartender – or leave with the buzz he had and find another way to distract himself.

The slight burst of energy from the ring on his left ring finger made the decision for him, and he reluctantly moved from his position at the bar. Nodding his head in thanks to the slender barkeep and dropping some money on the counter, he proceeded to make his way out of the bar to retrieve his new orders like the good little soldier he had no choice but to be, at least for now.

In your head, in your head,

Zombie, zombie, zombie.

What's in your head, in your head,

Zombie, zombie, zombie?

Haven't done a songfic in a while, and this song will NOT leave me be. I've always been fond of Kisame and was curious if he's really the cold-blooded killer of all demographics as he claims to be.

If you've never heard this song, do yourself a favor and give it a listen.

Much love,

child_of_the_moon

XO