He'd been dead for an hour, that's how long it had taken it for the two to arrive at the Castle Club at the base of the Beanstalk. The occupants were standing around the entrance, being held back by several bioroid security guards as they lined them up for questioning. With a flash of their ident-cards, the two were through. A 'borg and some disheveled man who looked he hadn't seen a happier day. After sparing a glance at the club - cutouts of strippers dancing, private booths, serving bots floating around aimlessly, and a bioroid bartender still walking to and fro behind the counter - Flint strode over to where the man lay. Not a man, he realized, a clone. The barcode shone at the back of his head in the light of a multi-spectrum bulb dangling by a thread. A turned-over chair laid next to the clone, and the back of his pale, hairless skull was cracked at the neck with a thin, pale ooze dripping from it - nothing unusual, just the normal ichor substance that replaced blood in clones. Flint knelt next to the corpse and grimaced. "Spence, check this out." His voice was haggard and cracked as he waved over for the other. The punk-kid, he called her. With a sigh, he creased his hat with a hand and glanced around for any sort of post-mortis specialist. None. Looked like they'd need to get their hands dirty for this one. Charged for obstruction of property at the worst, damn it, of course there's no post-mortis specialist... He thought, grinning at his own morbid humor.