(Don't worry about post length from here on in, alright?)

Episode 1 - This is not a Game

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Sky awoke in a small holding cell to the sound of a guard banging on the door. "Hey, kid, it's showtime!"
"Showtime?" He muttered to himself. "The hell does he mean by showtime?" Perplexed, he walked outside, and took a single look before his heart dropped.
A long corridor, filled with many different doors, not unlike his own. Each was labelled with their own number - his was 12. "Skylar's here. Next up, er...Watanabe?"

"Get 'im up," Another guard yelled from farther left of Skylar. "The game's about to start." His heart raced at the mention of 'The Game,' and his stomach sank to the floor. He knew all too well what this game was; he was forced to watch it too many times to not forget.

Geoffre sat about in his mansion, right next to the presidential one, and with a great view of the capitol, as always, being a sponsor, and personal clothing designer of the president himself, Geoffre got a "sneak peek" at the competitors, it's be shortly after they were all assembled. Before they were all dressed up and pranced around in a attempt to be likable, many of the top designers of his company were usually the designers of the contestants, the pawns. With a wave of his hand a servant came over, a small boy, probably 20 years or age, came over. Geoffre remembered him well, just last year he had the servants tongue ripped out for speaking without permission. Goeffre only spoke two words to the now mute servant, "More wine." With that his glass was filled with some of the finest wine in the country, premium, many years of work went into its creation, and over a century of aging. He flipped the channel to one of the monitoring networks of the common folk, and grew a ever so slight grin watching their toils.

Watanabe had awakened long before the sound of the club tapping on the door. He just hadn't bothered to open his eyes, instead preferring to sit in meditation. If his hunch was right about what all of this was, he would need every last bit of his considerable strength.

"Up and at 'em, tubby," the guard sneered as he unlocked the door. Watanabe did not react to the insult, instead getting to his feet and calmly walking where indicated. He had long since decided to conduct himself with all the dignity he could muster. Perhaps, someone somewhere would respect him for that.

Watanabe gave a polite nod to the rail-thin young man being prodded out of his cell as the guards walked the Japanese man down the hallway. No sense making enemies just yet.

"Shit," he muttered, as he was ushered down the hallway. In front of him was a man, slightly overweight, but...The way he conducted himself seemed friendly. "Hey," he whispered towards the man. "You seem awfully calm..."

He didn't want to make enemies just yet. He didn't want to be targeted by anyone, but he knew that eventually it was going to happen. Eventually, they would all die, and the game would just continue. People were going to keep going on and on with the game, pretending that they enjoyed it but tossed and turned at night hoping that they wouldn't be the next contender.

Shit, he was scared, he was terrified..."er...Watanabe, was it?" He asked. "...Have you got any plans?" He didn't need to clarify what he meant by plans. Any plans at this point were just plans to survive. And he knew he wasn't going to be able to if he was on his own.

Watanabe shrugged at the young man's question about his plans. "Fight," he said quietly. "Win."

He looked over the man- Skylar, was it?- and gave him a reassuring smile. He didn't feel quite as confident. Death was certain. But when death was all you had left, you might as well do it right. And he saw no point in dying alone. "You seem to be a decent enough sort. I could use someone watching my back in there." Watanabe smiled again. "Couldn't hurt, right?"

"Yeah..." He smiled a bit. Watanabe was actually kind of a nice guy, it seemed. But you never know who's got your back and who's gonna stab it. "I've gotcha."

Heh. Gonna go down? Go down with a fight. Watanabe seemed to be giving off that vibe, and Skylar felt a pang of confidence when he thought things through. Maybe he wasn't going to die as immediately as he thought...

Geoffre observed the new contestants with curiosity, "Already formed a team, eh? Might be worth a few grand in sponsorship." With a swipe of his hand a holographic screen materialized, and with two simple words "Skylar Laverne" information on the contestants was displayed. "Hmm. 19, good, still in his prime, good reflexes most likely. According to pregame testing, very quick reactions and the like. Certainly one to consider throwing some money at. Now for the fat one. Wanatabe. Hm 38 years and kinda large, can't say he's in his prime, so that's a downer. Well it says he's a sumo, so I guess it makes sense he's large. Also says that according to their best guesses, because he didn't do too much, he's a patient man, though that might come in handy sometimes, in a game full of younger reactive people he might not last past the first week or so. Still, might be worth a small investment." With that the holograph dissipated and Geoffre went to observe the swans in his private lake.

"People are watching. Hope to the gods we can make ourselves presentable," he muttered. And pray to the gods he did. The line lurched forward...

Hopefully it wouldn't be to their death.

"If nothing else, they will remember the name Watanabe," he said with conviction as the line slowly moved. "How about it, Skylar? Wanna die fighting or on your knees? And with or without a friend?"

He fell silent, contemplating his decisions.

"...Very well. If I'm gonna go down, I'm gonna go down in the books, too."

The line moved into another set of rooms, each one containing its own label. Skylar's was the 12th, and Watanabe's placing was no different.
The way they were numbered back in the cell rooms was the way they would be numbered throughout the rest of their lives, that much became clear.

Watanabe arched his eyebrow at the 13 that denoted his place. They were being processed like cattle, lined up for slaughter. Sooner or later they'd actually be put into combat, but before then, so much to do. Had to get ready for their audience. Watanabe raised a huge, thick hand, gave Skylar a clap on the shoulder. Things were about to get real.

He jumped at the sudden touch. There were many things to be done. "So, Watanabe," he started. "Have you got any plans to win over the audience, maybe a few sponsors?" He asked. He was busy devising plans of his own - but the only thing he could think to do was improvise.

Shit was about to hit the fan, and he knew it.

"The strongest part of a sumo is his heart," Watanabe said with honest pleasure. "Even in such dark times as these, there's still people who admire virtues like determination and skill. I can distinguish myself in those areas." His face darkened. "Or I can kill men with my bare hands. Those animals might enjoy that more."

He shuddered at the thought. "Eesh." His icy blue eyes scanned over the area, everybody seemed so confident, so ready to kill one another..."I agree with the strongest part being your heart," he commented. "I may lack confidence or the will to end another's life, but I'm determined to stay alive. Those sound conflicting, dammit. Urgh."

"I've been fighting for years. But always in a dohyō, with a referee and limits on technique. I don't doubt I am physically capable of killing, and I certainly know how. I will do it if necessary. But then I have to live with myself afterwards." Watanabe sighed. "Only in self-defense. Skylar, hold me to that. Do not let me kill people wantonly or unnecessarily."

"Very well." Never proactive. Always in self-defense. He repeated those two phrases in his head without ceasing, and with that thought in his head, he began to pace. There were a lot of things on his mind, now. "I will not let you become the monster they want you to be."

"20 minutes! Stylists, pick someone and buddy up!" Men and women wearing eccentric, sorry, still-waiting-to-catch-on, clothing rushed into the room, immediately picking and choosing from the multitude of people in the room. 20 minutes until showtime, and they were going to be presented by the order in which they had been celled in. At least, it seemed that way. A lone woman pulled Sky away, and the only words he could get out before being choked by his own collar were, "Good luck out there, Watanabe! See you soo-GAK!"

When they were alone, they made eye contact. "Well, hello there," he muttered, in a sarcastic tone. "Hey."
This was the start of something that was going to be grueling for Skylar, he could just feel it. "When do we start?" He asked.

"Right now."

((After Poly's post, we can timeskip, yeah?))

He was a sumo, and he was going to go into the arena as one, dammit.

Watanabe swatted aside the designer clothes that were thrust into his hands and glowered down at the mousy man assigned to him. "Get me thirty feet of silk," he commanded. "I will wear the mawashi, as is traditional. None of this modern day foolishness," he said as he contemptuously kicked at the pile of clothing on the ground. The stylist gulped nervously, relayed the request outside. With that concession made, the little man proceeded to snatch up a comb and hair product.

"No," Watanabe growled, protectively covering his long, flowing hair. With impressive dexterity for a man with such thick fingers, Watanabe nimbly tied his shoulder-length hair into a chonmage, the traditional topknot for sumo wrestlers. "I will fight with dignity and honor and I will not debase myself by pretending to be anything other than a sumo," he informed the cowering stylist. "Is that understood?"

The man couldn't do anything but gulp again and nod.

**lolcommercialbreak'causefuckyou**

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Sky looked for Watanabe, amongst the other contestants. He wasn't that hard to find, due to his...Ahem, girth. "Yo!" He shouted. Before the two were even allowed a proper reunion with one another, they were shoved backstage, where they were soon to be released and shown to the public eye.

***

Skylar was given his cue. He walked sheepishly onstage, his hands behind his back, and everything about him generally refined to something that represented him as a character. 'Bold, quick,' the stylist's words echoed in his mind. Blue was apparently the colour that matched him most. He didn't reject the statement.

He gave a few inspirational words, the usual bullshit that everyone else had given before, flaunted his baby-face and his eyes...The works.

His fears were slowly but surely being confirmed.