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.