Deep in the Midcity, a road curves out of view. The only light coming from any lost Terradynes passing through the area.

You stand on a dark stretch of road. Dark not simply because of the perpetual night, dark due to the fact e-fluid was cut from this area entirely a few years ago. The blackout makes it difficult to make out the once neon sign bolted to the front of the simple, square building. "Lasher's Tavern" It reads, once coloured Orange and red the bulbs are now as invisible as this whole sub-sector of the Ministry. Simply nobody is here, the tramps and vagrants would rather loiter places where they might be able to see the barrel they are trying to start a fire in.
A trio of worn stone steps lead up to two pairs of double doors. The glass has been smashed out of them and the door's handles bent out of shape enough that they no longer close properly. The rusted hinges squeak loudly and alert all the vermin inside to your presence, they politely scurry away out of sight before you have a chance to lay eyes on them. The interior of the long dead bar has not been greatly affected since being abandoned. In the darkness it is easy to make out a bar, bolted down stools, a damaged but intact pool table. Booze you will not find here, nor electronics of any variety. They were taken within days of the place being closed down.
The floor towards the entrance crunches loudly underfoot. A lovely combination of broken windows, mirrors and light bulbs being covered with a blanket of soft snow that makes it look deceptively safe to walk on. The broken windows allowing a lot of snow, hail and frost to form on the surfaces inside. Vandals have taken a hammer to everything easily broken. The mirror behind the bar, the derelict vending machines, the velvet flesh of the pool tables have been torn too. A few spray painted curse words decorate the mostly barren walls.
The pub is not particularly interesting, nor depressing. Just another casualty that's easily passed by. But push open the door within the old storage room and you'll be greeted with a staircase... A the gentile caress of warm air. The landlord's apartment still has life within it yet. Up the unmarred concrete staircase and around the corner is a small, open plan living space. The furnishings are gone, leaving a tiled kitchen area with nothing to cook with, a carpeted lounge section with nothing to sit on and a utility cupboard providing e-fluid circuit boxes that will never be used again. The closet-sized bathroom still functions, but the shower there can only provide icy-cold water without any heating system in place. The windows have all been boarded up securely, scrap having been put in place in order to keep the draft away. The floor too has seen recent attention, the dust and debris having been swept away to make the near-empty places somewhat more comfortable. The room is not as dark as the rest of the pub. A warm glow and brilliant heat radiates from a crank-charged electric lantern that rests in the corner, some bedding is neatly folded nearby. Alongside the sleeping area is a cheap journal with almost transparent pages, there are some other personal effects scattered around. An extra set of clothes, some bottles of clean water should the pipes refuse to defrost. Tinned rations and a hefty length of iron pipe to secure the door to this little pocket of life. The way the possessions are bunched up around the lantern, over half of the small living space is unused.