This was written for Speedrent (prompt: write a crossover between RENT and a daytime TV show). Rating raised for one obscene phrase on Mark's part.

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT or Pokemon.

ROGER

I let my shoulders drop. I loved this bar--it was almost like a shower, with misters arranged around the perimeter. I loved the cool temperature, the dim lighting, and the fact that hardly anyone visited. Anyone of feline or flaming qualities kept away; those who enjoyed water fights and such found the area too dry. Those who did frequent the joint were quieter, greens usually.

"Hey."

I raised my eyes. "Hey!" I said, wishing his voice was not so raw. I took a quick drink; it was only honeyed water, but it felt good on my throat. "You were good today."

"Not too shabby yourself. Vodka and orange?" she asked. Off the bartender's bland look, she sighed and said, "All right, all right, a Sprite." She took her drink and sipped it. "Ugh. Decaf. You pay to get in to these places and can't even enjoy yourself--and it's two hundred fifty yen, too."

"You don't pay," I observed. I drank again; my throat had been through enough today, and I knew I would need my voice just as loud and powerful tomorrow. "She did. Joan, was it?"

"Joanne. Yours?"

"Mark." I smiled. I liked Mark. The kid had a bit of a temper and a bit of an ego and more than a bit to learn, but his heart was in the right place.

She nodded. "So, you come here often?"

"Yeah. Well!" I laughed. "Not here here, you know, since Mark's travelling, trying to become a Master, but we're here for the Cat Scratch. You?"

"Ah, Jo wants to settle down. But Jo always wants to settle down. We were a few towns back about a month ago, had a nice little place. Neighbors? They had this adorable little Pikachu, and after two weeks--"

"Roger!"

I glanced around. Mark was trotting down the stairs, motioning for me to come. "I better go." I drained my glass. "Anyway, nice meeting you…?"

"Maureen," she told my.

"Maureen. Good match."

"You, too."

We shook. I jogged over to an impatient Mark, who wrapped an arm around my shoulders and led me out, whispering plans for tomorrow's battle. Maureen squinted at the bartender, dedicated to her pursuit of that vodka and orange.

MARK

I called Professor Collins that night. As his image appeared on the screen, I blinked and readjusted myself to the sight of the professor's Pokemon. Most trainers keep their Pokemon in Pokeballs unless they're fighting or training; some have started letting the creatures out in the evenings and afternoons since the professor's research went public. Still, no one I knew of had gone as far as the professor had.

Professor Collins caught me staring at the mocha-skinned young Pokemon in the background and frowned. "Mark," he chided, "you know Pokemon aren't so different from you and me."

I nodded. "Yeah, I know, Professor. I read your book."

That doesn't mean I understood. He had always been an eccentric. Teaching his Pokemon to speak was one thing: that had scientific merit. Giving it--him--her, as Professor Collins insisted, though the Pokemon had male genitalia--clothing had caused quite the stir. Should Pokemon be given the concepts of modesty and shame? The professor obviously felt so. If the Pokemon was to be introduced into human society, allowed to read and be aware of culture, he-- she would find those things, anyway.

The eccentricities grew. Everyone had always known that Professor Collins was a progressive, a strange man, but his attitude towards his Pokemon rocked the world. Plenty of people named Pokemon and kept them as pets. Professor Collins' Pokemon chose to call herself Angel.

Educating, clothing, and naming was apparently not enough for Professor Collins. He claimed he had fallen in love with this Angel. He tried to marry her and even, it was rumored, fornicated with her. He was currently lobbying for legislation for human-Pokemon schools, Pokemon representation in the government, and marriages between Pokemon or between Pokemon and humans.

"Don't you feel bad giving me a Pokemon, if you don't approve of this?" I had once asked him. I know that was rude of me, but he had changed everything. I was angry with the tourists and journalists filling the town, angry at the falseness now shining over people I had grown up with. Everyone wanted to meet, see, or interview this crazy professor and his Pokemon.

"No," he had told me. "I know you'll treat him well. And until the world changes, Pokemon continue to need kind trainers." That was the day he gave me Roger.

"How are you?" the professor asked, the night before the Cat Scratch battle.

I nodded. "Good. Roger and I had a bit of a warm-up today against this girl, Joanne."

"You're taking good care of him, aren't you?"

Again I nodded. "He… uh, should be sleeping now."

Professor Collins asked, "How's his vocabulary coming? I want to speak to him soon, Mark." He was teasing, half-serious.

The truth is, I hadn't taught Roger a word. He seemed fairly content, and personally I didn't see the bother. Pokemon aren't humans, why should I pretend otherwise? "He's not taking well to it," I said. "Sorry, Professor." I knew it ruined his statistics, and a part of me felt guilty. The professor was a nice person and he worked hard for what he believed in.

I let Roger out that night. "You… uh… you understand me, right?" I asked. He nodded. "Um… you can sleep out here if you want. There's a spare pallet in the closet…"

Roger settled himself on the bed. Of course, having lived most of his life with Professor Collins, he expected that he and I would share the bed. "Oh… I don't…" What the hell. He probably didn't know love from a good hard fuck, anyway. I lay down beside him.

"What's it like sleeping in a Pokeball?" I asked that night in the darkness.

"Roger."

Of course. Silly me, to forget a thing like that. Roger perceived nothing. He knew no words but his own name.