You enter inside MacCadam's bar to notice most of the patrons were knocked out, or off some high-grade with bottles and stains littering the floor with a few less broken stools and fractured windows as the dimly lit ceiling bulb illuminated, the figure of a cobalt chrome femme, with a wourne-torn frame. 

"Ugh, slag, mah joints are all stiff..." Chromia mutters to herself as she flexes on her rust spots. "Aah'll have a couple more of those 'baby-booze' sugah'."