Disclaimer: I am NOT Jonathan Larson (God bless his soul). And though I would want to, I do not own RENT or any of the original characters. I only own this plot and the dignity I get from writing it. :)

PS: The life support members in this chappie are dedicated to intermediate c. :) I love you inter c.

(Narrator's POV)

Cat Scratch Club: December 10, 1990, 11 am, Eastern Standard Time

"You're hired," the manager said, the moment Mimi stepped in.

"Wha-?"

She obviously hadn't expected to be appointed a job so soon. The manager had barely even spoken three words to her. Yet there he was, comfortably seated behind his polished wooden desk, his face twisted in a very pleased look.

"Sir, you haven't even seen my resume yet," Mimi said, taking a seat on one of the chairs in front of his desk.

She handed him her form but he pushed it away, shaking his head.

"There's no need for that," he mused, leaning forward in his chair.

"But sir…"

"Stand up again, will you sweetie?" he asked politely, gesturing her to get up.

Though bemused at his request, Mimi did as asked. There she was, standing awkwardly in front of the business man in an elegant light purple spaghetti top with a matching short frilly black skirt and boots to finish off. He eyed the young Latina up and down, nodding and stroking his miniscule beard as he surveyed her curvaceous body.

"What did you say was your name again?" he asked, eyes plastered to Mimi's slender brown legs.

"Mimi," she answered, feeling a tad bit uncomfortable with his stare. "Mimi Marquez."

"Mimi, Mimi," the manager mumbled, nodding his head in approval.

"So…?" Mimi prodded on, hoping to get his eyes off of her.

"You've got the goods, honey," the middle-aged man said, resting his feet on the table.

He took out a cigarette and started to blow out big puffs.

"I know the goods, I've seen the goods… and, you've got the goods," he added on.

Mimi sat back down and decided that she didn't want to know what he meant. Instead, she thanked the club owner and asked him what he had in mind for her.

"I can clean up. I'm really good with the broom, I…"

The manager slammed his palm on his desk so vehemently that Mimi ceased in mid-sentence, blinking rapidly as if the sound had stung her eyes.

"What's this nonsense? Broom?" he boomed, his gray eyes suddenly taking on a fearsome glare. "You will not hold a broom while you are in my club, you hear?"

"Well, I was just thinking…"

"NO! Trust me, I have something else in mind for you," he cooed, calming down and stubbing his cigarette on a metal ash tray.

"Oh, so… Waitress, maybe?" she muttered, afraid that the big boned man would lose his temper again.

"No, no. That simply won't do," he murmured reproachfully, swaggering to the opposite end of the room.

He looked outside his huge glass window, which hung over his bar, giving him a perfect view of the entire club. At now, it was empty and the chairs were stacked neatly on top of the round black tables. The runway stage was unlit and the place seemed so innocent to an onlooker's eye that one could barely even believe that the place drew in hundreds of pleasure-thirsty men at night.

"Tell me, honey," the big man suddenly spoke. "Have you ever danced?"

Mark and Roger's loft: 12 pm, Eastern Standard Time

"ROGER!"

The blonde-haired man of 25 rolled over on his bed, twirling his blanket around his body. He moaned and attempted to cover his ears with his pillow.

"Not now, Mark," he grumbled groggily.

"For heaven's sake, Roger! IT'S 12:00!" Mark, an aspiring film director, grabbed the lone pillow from his roommate's grasp.

Roger moaned once more, his face hidden underneath unruly strings of blonde hair. Much as Mark persisted, Roger hadn't gotten a hair cut for the longest time. Neither had he stepped foot out of their apartment in forever, for that matter.

"Who cares if it's 12:00? I WANT TO SLEEP," Roger immediately snatched his yellowing pillow back from Mark.

Mark sighed in resignation and adjusted his glasses, which were slipping down his nose. He checked his watch and walked promptly out of the room in protest.

"WHATEVER!" he shouted back at Roger, who had retreated back under the covers once more.

"If we get robbed or anything while I'm off at WORK, and you're laying around snoozing like that… FINE. WHATEVER. I don't care!" he yelled, sick of Roger's repulsive behavior.

He scrambled all over the loft, attempting to scour the place for his beloved camera, and other gadgets. He tossed Roger's clothes to the side, which had been lying around, only to find his beloved Polaroid camera wedged between two threadbare cushions in the couch.

"Bye now!" Roger's voice floated from his room.

Mark made a sound of frustration. He decided to try a different approach.

"Why don't you take a walk in the park today?" he asked, nicely this time, while fixing his blue and red striped scarf around his neck. "Or you know… try to find a JOB. Like ME!"

Roger had been doing nothing for the past months since his beloved girl friend died, but write songs with his guitar, which always turned out to be sucky. Mark, however, had received a well earned job position from Buzzline.

"You HATE your job," Roger pointed out, shifting positions in his bed.

"But I earn MONEY," Mark snapped back.

"Money is nothing without happiness," Roger grumbled, half-asleep.

"UGH. I give up."

Mark could hear Roger laughing triumphantly to himself as he dragged his heavy filming equipment out the loft.

"If you do insist on staying inside the whole day…"

Like you've done for everyday of your sad life, Mark thought.

"Make yourself useful and pick up my new camera equipment," Mark ordered, struggling with his heavy bag full of gadgets, trinkets and whatnot.

"I just told them to leave it by the front door. 2:00!" he called, panting heavily. "Did you hear me, Davis? 2:00!"

Roger turned over on the bed, and kept his eyes shut. But nevertheless, he shouted OKAY to Mark to please him.

"Don't forget! You know how it is in New York."

"One day you have your things lying on the sidewalk, next thing, they're in the knapsack of some junkie," Mark mumbled to himself.

"Don't forget to take your AZT," he called, before letting the sliding metal door shut.

Of course, Roger was too far off in dreamland to hear.

Joanne Jefferson's Law Firm: 12:30 pm, Eastern Standard Time

Meanwhile, in another part of New York City, a dark skinned lawyer dressed in expensive garbs was fuming angrily from inside her office. She shook her head in suppressed fury, causing her black curly locks to sway from side to side.

Joanne Jefferson, what has gotten into you? How could you, of all people lose this case! It was practically in the bag! Joanne rebuked herself sharply.

How could she lose that case? How could the jury, after obvious evidence and clear reasoning, still give the win to the opposition? The only thing that stood between her and that victory was a small eight year old girl, who had undeniably memorized her lines. It was all an act, and she knew it. Now, another criminal was running lose in the Big Apple.

Screw it.

Okay, she told herself, forget about it and focus on your new case.

She opened her desk drawer and tried to find a certain case file between the mess. "Where is it?" she grumbled, taking mounds of papers out of her drawer.

"Ah, there it is," she spoke to herself, pulling out a short yellow folder.

"Hmm… okay," she read, "Mr. Johnny Gonzales filed a case against a Ms. Maureen Johnson for illegally claiming to own a lot without a title."

The middle-aged lawyer stroked her chin pensively. I think I'll go check it out, she thought to herself. It has always been a notorious habit of hers to spy on the opposition.

So right after a quick lunch of oven-warmed pasta, Joanne glanced at the lot address in her file and was off. Driving through Alphabet City in her newly owned Mercedes Benz, she couldn't help but think to herself how queer Ms. Johnson's name sounded.

Maureen? Now who would own a name like that?

Once she arrived, Joanne was surprised to find the "lot" (if you could call it that) in a somewhat underground tavern. Hobos and city vagabonds eyed her in her long fancy gray coat as she passed. Eventually, she reached the lot which she was apparently fighting for.

An eerie high pitched voice came floating to the lawyer's ear as she passed under the spray painted archway, to enter the lot.

Joanne spied a woman standing atop a rough hewn stage, singing her heart out into a specially made brown microphone.

"Hi! You came to watch me?" the woman asked, once she saw the surly looking lawyer enter the space.

"No… Actually, I…"

The performer wouldn't hear a word, and dragged Joanne over to the very front of the stage.

"Great, I need you to tell me how this sounds," she said, rushing back up the stage.

"Uh… I was just taking a look…"

"Only thing to do is jump over the moon, over the mooooo!"

Joanne cocked her head to the side, obviously annoyed at the woman's singing. But, she also couldn't help admiring the woman's curvy body, long red locks and plump crimson lips. Once she finished the song, Joanne clapped to please her.

"Thank you! Thank you!" the performer bowed gracefully.

"Maureen Johnson here everyday of the week folks, everyday!"

"You're Maureen?" Joanne asked, pointing a finger as if accusing her of something.

"Yes, MAUREEN JOHNSON," she said her name as if it were of great importance.

"And this… Is MY performance space!" she put her hands up in the air, acknowledging the desolate area.

"Not if you're owning it illegally," Joanne said in return.

Maureen shot a bloody look toward the lawyer.

"And who, may I ask, are you?" Maureen raised a curious eyebrow, as if only first noticing that a cross-dressing woman was standing in her presence.

"I'm Joanne. Attorney Joanne Jefferson."

Life Support Meeting: 1 pm, Eastern Standard Time

Tom Collins stood at the bottom of a flight of steps that led toward the front door of a small auditorium. He eyed the pale faces of the people who slowly passed him, and entered the little theater.

Tom stood there, still unsure if he really wanted to enter. He stuffed his chilly hands inside his yellow vest and let out a long sigh. As he was about to turn and leave, he bumped into someone from behind.

"I'm sorry!" he immediately cried, happy that the person hadn't fallen.

"No harm done, honey," the person said, smiling.

Collins looked the person up and down. She was wearing a rather peculiar outfit, though Collins thought she pulled it off very well, considering the circumstances. She suited a red Santa-looking top (complete with the fluffy white collar), a white skirt with flowers sewn on here and there, long green stockings with a pattern that reminded Collins of crocodiles and knee-high boots to match.

"I saw you looking over there," she cocked her head toward the auditorium.

"Having second thoughts, sugar?" she asked.

Collins was taken aback at how easily she understood him, but nodded.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, were all like you," she said, smiling.

So she's one of us, Collins thought to himself.

"Come on."

The kind woman twirled her slender arm around Collins' dark skinned one and led him inside. They found that the meeting was already starting, with everyone gathered in a circle. Seats were placed right in front of the small stage.

The woman Collins had come in with pulled up a chair and joined the circle without hesitation, like she was a regular there. Collins took off his bonnet and took a seat beside her.

There was awkward silence.

"I guess we should introduce ourselves. I'm Dionell," one man started, gesturing to the woman next to him.

"Meg."

"Sasha."

"Tom."

"Anthony."

"Claire."

Everyone put their eyes on Collins. He mustered a meek smile.

"Collins," he stopped. "Tom."

"Tom Collins."

Gazes turned to the woman next to Collins.

Surprisingly, she reached behind her head and pulled off her stark black wig. The rest tried not to look shocked, especially Collins, who had really thought her a woman.

"Hi," she said slowly, neglecting our stares.

"I'm Angel."

Angel, Collins thought, What a beautiful name.

Mark and Roger's loft: 2 pm, Eastern Standard Time

Roger yawned and finally hobbled out of bed after 2 more hours of sleep. He scratched at the back of his head while walking out to the kitchen, barefoot.

He poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a bite out of the stale toast which was in the middle of the table. He spit it out immediately and drank some juice to get rid of the putrid taste.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and nearly choked on his juice. It was 2:10! For all he knew, Mark's equipment could've been snatched up by some thief by now! Drat, why'd he have to go and agree to him?

Roger rushed out to the fire escape and leaned over the balustrade to look to the sidewalk. And sure enough, two big brown packages were lying at the top of the steps.

"Shit," Roger muttered crossly.

He raced out of the loft and down the steps. In his rush, he clashed into a person who was coming up the stairs, carrying a large cardboard box. They both fell over from the impact and landed on the 2nd floor landing.

"Shit, I'm so sorry!" Roger cried, sitting up and clutching his head.

The woman he had bumped sat up laughing and managed to get some stray brown hair strands from her face.

"It's okay."

For a moment, the two stared at each other, transfixed and hypnotized in each other's eyes. There was this instant mutual emotion that surged between them, at the moment they looked each other in the eyes.

Roger found the young girl's eyes vaguely familiar.

"Hi," the girl finally broke the silence.

"Hi," Roger said, shaking his head as if to push the hypnotism away.

He got up and helped the tanned young woman stand as well. She blushed when he gazed into her eyes again. She brought her falling blue sweater shyly up to her shoulders, covering her lilac top.

"I'm Roger," Roger said, extending his hand absentmindedly.

"Mimi," Mimi said, shaking his outstretched hand.

"Are you moving in?" he asked, just noticing her belongings all over the floor.

"Yeah," Mimi began to pick up her stuff from the floor.

Roger bent down to help her, throwing the things carelessly back inside the box. He was still too busy admiring her eyes.

Yikes, Roger. Pull yourself together.

Roger had never felt as strongly about someone this way since April had died, taking her own life. The picture of April dragged Roger's floating heart back down to the deep watery depths. Though very surprisingly, Mimi's one smile sent his heart flying all over the place again. What was it about her?

"Thanks," Mimi said, as she put the last item inside the box.

"No problem."

Awkward silence once more. Mimi bit her lip coyly. She picked up her box and took one step up the stairs.

"Well, see you around."

She turned and walked slowly up the stairs, as if expecting Roger to say something. When he didn't, she quickened her pace, obviously disappointed.

"Mimi!"

Finally, Mimi thought.

"Yeah?"

"Ummm… Do you want me to help you with your stuff?" Roger asked, being a gentleman.

Mimi grinned, and that was all Roger needed.

"The last box is on the sidewalk," she said, turning around and heading back up the stairs.

"Oh! I'm on the third floor," she added. Roger nodded.

Roger watched her disappear before flying down the steps. He wedged Mark's two parcels under his right arm, and easily lifted Mimi's box under his left. He trudged up the steps two at a time, humming a tune he would want to try later on the guitar.

He laid his load on the floor and knocked on the door of the third floor's lone apartment. Mimi immediately pulled the door open and gestured Roger inside. Her apartment was just as big as the loft, but needed a lot of work.

"Why'd you decide to move to New York?" he asked, laying the boxes on a tiny round table.

"You don't want to know," Mimi answered, checking out her bedroom.

Roger followed her into the bedroom.

"I do."

Mimi looked at him and sighed. "I ran away, okay?"

"Oh."

Roger didn't dare ask further. Mimi pushed past him back into her "living room." Roger followed silently, watching her slender legs pace the floor.

"Where do you work?" Roger asked.

"As of this morning… Cat Scratch," Mimi answered, heading for the bathroom.

"Cat Scratch? Isn't that the strip club?"

"Yeah, it is," Mimi twisted her face in disgust as she surveyed the bathroom.

"So… you're a – er – dancer?" Roger coughed.

"I guess…" Mimi answered uncertainly. "I wasn't planning to be one."

"WATCH OUT!"

Roger tried to catch Mimi as she slipped on a huge puddle of sink leakage. Unsuccessful, he simply ended up slipping as well and landing right flat on top of the big puddle. Mimi, saved from getting damp, landed right on top of him.

"Close one," Roger mumbled, not caring that he was lying on a puddle of sewer water.

"Yeah," Mimi muttered her face so close to his.

Much as he didn't want to, flashes of April's face crept into Roger's mind. Half-way into a kiss, Roger pushed Mimi away, causing her to roll over. Roger got up, dripping sewer leakage, and briskly walked out the bathroom.

Grabbing his parcels, he deftly took his large polo off, revealing his muscle shirt.

"Roger!" Mimi called. "I'm sorry… why…"

"Goodbye, Mimi," he said, closing the door to her apartment.

A/N: Sorry that was so long. I just wanted to get all the characters introduced in one chappie so I could get on with the plot. :) R&R, dears! Pretty please:)