Residences

To apply for a residence, fill out the form below. Be descriptive in the details of your conapt's confines.

name: Lola Herzburg-Wright
conapt floor: 43
conapt number: Penthouse
inside: Lola Herzburg-Wright will settle for nothing but the best for her conapt. Sparing no expense to furnish her living space, it's decked with wall-to-wall silk tapestries and a gold-trimmed, full-length mirror at the far corner. All the table legs are carved out of ivory, albeit from synthetic elephants. Pull back the drapes and you'll find yourself facing the best view of the cityscape. It is, however, in a perpetual state of disarray. Bots are always running around every which way, cleaning up after her messes.

name: Jill Bantum
conapt floor: 14
conapt number: D (I assume you mean letter?)
inside: Jill lives by the minimalist lifestyle. Hers is a small studio conapt that lacks of any luxuries except for a bookcase stocked with dog-eared paperbacks and a dying fern plant in the kitchen. There is the occassional 'pape lying around, and it's always tuned to the news section. All her furniture is secondhand, but clean. There are no pictures of her family to be seen.

name: Shiori Mishima
conapt floor: 6
conapt number: F
inside:

6F is Em's home whenever work doesn't take her abroad. The door is equipped with a triple-lock mechanism that only responds to Em's fingerprint, retinal ID and specially designed laser-response key.

One would smell the accumulation of several year's worth of cigar smoke the moment the door is opened.

Em's space is a disaster area of papers, coffee mugs (some still half-filled with the growth-encrusted sludge that was once coffee), discarded memory cards, file storages, pamphlets, booklets, presentation visual aids and crumpled notes. Everywhere are cigar and cigarette butts, filled ashtrays, and gray burnt surfaces which very well once served as ashtrays.

The desk near the window has disappeared beneath several years' worth of accumulated folders. The waste bin in the corner is an empty, ridiculous fixture. There's a holoscreen tv somewhere in the room, but it's been lost under mountains of paperwork.

The only surface uncluttered by reminders of Em's job is the simple white futon she sleeps in. On the floor beside it is an old copy of Dante's Inferno and more cigar burns. On the other side is the only thing of artistic merit in Em's apartment - a wall-sized print of Salvador Dali's The Angelus .