Substation

Small bones crunched under my feet.
The remains of generations of tiny rodents, their bodies stripped clean by their own descendents.

It's an old electricity sub-station alongside the tracks of the Northern Line. We got in at night, climbing a half-collapsed fence. The great main doors had been flapping open earlier that day; I'd spotted it from the tube.

Building of potential use. Running water. A little too running, if the puddles on the basement floor are anything to go by. But in this part of the city, it's hardly a surprise; most people know better than to attempt digging.

No electricity, ironically enough. No riser for normal mains power. This renders the structure unsuitable as a residence.

Three floors; basement, ground, and a mezzanine. All sturdy enough.
The skeleton of a crane is still in place, hanging from girders at roof-level.

One primary entry point; metal doors; strong enough to barricade.
Additional entry points: 2? fire doors.

The guitar cases remained on stage long after the band and crew should have packed up and gone off to sleep/party/fuck, instruments laid on top of them like flags on coffins.

The fire curtain came down in front of the band almost as soon as they'd finished playing the last screaming song. The performance was beautiful; agonized; electrified. She sang like she was being torn apart; guitar, bass, and drums all in chains to the music.

It's hard to tell what happens after that.

Their website has been down for three months now.