Blue Falcon Hotel

Nothing about the Blue Falcon Hotel is meant to attract a tourist. It is a cheap flophouse on Eros, set in a dark and dingy stretch of the station where broken lights leave corners and people get mugged or worse. The lobby is mostly empty floor: a pair of couches at one end beside a table of magazines, elevators recessed into the far wall next to a door marked STAIRS, and a check-in desk in the middle with a touch screen where a clerk would be. The corridors past it are thin and cramped, the walls painted in the impervious gloss of warehouse paint, the carpet a carbon-silicate weave picked to wear out slower than bare stone. Every room door is the same thin fiberglass laminate, churned out by the thousand.