If you know who this guy is, I'll give you a 1:1 [Sleep No More (Macbeth)]

[acunningman]

I may be right. I may be wrong. But I'm perfectly willing to swear that when you turned, and smiled at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

...it is you, isn't it?

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

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[unawares]

Is that meant to be a metaphor? [ The woman is all red lips and smoke, hair perfectly coiffed and long, perfectly-manicured nails. Her expression betrays neither curiosity nor interest, but still she asks. ]

The nightingale singing.

[acunningman]

[He's clearly unnerved by something. It may be her. It may not be her at all. His eyes follow the smoke curling from her lips as though he suspects it to resolve into something else.]

Just...sweet nothings.

[He gives her a quick and timid smile.]

Do you require my services?

[unawares]

Sweet nothings, [ Rachael repeats flatly, as if she hasn't the slightest idea what that's meant to mean. Romance is a sentiment that doesn't really exist anymore, where she's from. Ironically, neither do birds (beyond the manufactured kind). ]

What sort of services?

[acunningman]

[Romance is not a subject he is personally acquainted with either, although he is at least aware of it. But he has no talent at it.]

What...do you mean, what services do I offer at all, or which do I...offer at this time?

[He's not sure if she truly doesn't know, of if she's playing coy, and it sends him stuttering.]

[unawares]

[ The fact that he seems so uncomfortable seems to get her to smile, albeit briefly. A flicker of an expression, just barely curling at the edges of her mouth. There and then gone again, as if she hadn't smiled at all. ]

You're not a very good salesman.

[acunningman]

[He's caught it. He sees far more than anyone ever suspects. He wishes, at times, that he did not.]

No. But I am a very fine tailor.

[This he can say with confidence, although it is still quiet.]

[unawares]

[ She looks as though she would appreciate the work of a tailor. Rachael's dress suit is sharp, feminine but geometrically cut; its shoulders are exaggerated and its waist is cinched, put together tidily from varying shades of grey and slate blue.

Her interest, for the first time, seems piqued. Rachael's gaze darts up and then down. ]

Did you make the clothes you're wearing?

[acunningman]

[He caught that as well, and he appreciates the craftsmanship of her garment, and its fit which he takes in with the eye of a professional rather than a player.]

I did, indeed.

[He's always dressed very neatly, never flashily, in a dark suit and tie on account of his other profession.]

I am also our undertaker, but that is a business which needs no advertising as one can always be sure a client will arrive...eventually.

[And there is one more thing J. Fulton does, but he takes no payment for it.]

[unawares]

[ Rachael blinks once at the word undertaker — not a flinch nor a flicker, but a manifestation of something. (Perhaps it's curiosity showing its face, or perhaps it's bemusement that takes no other shape.) ]

That's an unexpected pair.

[acunningman]

I-...suppose it must seem so.

[But it is natural to him. Everyone in town knows what he does. And what he can do, should they require it, even if they only believe in him to various degrees.]

I. Find lost things as well. Sometimes.

[unawares]

[ Despite what she is, Rachael isn't wholly immune to experiencing human emotion, though she's not the type to feel things like dread on a regular basis. Still, something in the language bothers her, the idea of I find lost things reminding her of blade runners and retirement.

To her credit, none of this passes her expression, which remains as unreadable as ever. ]

Something of a Renaissance man, I see. [ Her voice falls short of impressed. ] What sort of things?

[acunningman]

[He would envy her, were he in the know. Dread hangs over him near constantly. On the other hand his humanity is very important to him; he would not trade that.]

Just something I've always had a knack for.

[He's still not sure which side she's on. He won't say cunning. Not yet.]

Missing things. Stolen things. People who have lost their way.

[And love spells, but he's no good at love spells.]

[unawares]

[ She's tempted to ask if he can do the opposite — somehow make things that need to be found hidden from view. Despite the anonymity offered by the city, Rachael knew she wouldn't be able to avoid the blade runners. So she ran. Went north like she'd promised Deckard.

(As if this undertaker in his bespoke suit could solve all her problems.) ]

Seems like that would be a much more profitable business than suits and corpses, Mister—?

[acunningman]

[He could. Theoretically. He could supply her with a charm, meant to keep her safe. He's fair at those.]

Fulton. J. Fulton.

[He shakes his head vehemently.]

I don't charge for...that.

[unawares]

So you deal with dead bodies for free, Mr. Fulton. [ It's not a question, so she doesn't phrase it like one, the tail end of her sentence dipping neither up nor down in inflection. ] Is that something you've always had a knack for?

[acunningman]

No, I had meant: the helping of those who are troubled.

[But there are some dead things he does lay to rest free of charge, because they deserve it.]

Are you...troubled, Miss-...?

[unawares]

[ Rachael is. Very troubled. Pressed by thoughts about her existence, about the manner of her creation and inevitability of her own death. Four years, that's all a replicant gets before its biology breaks down on command. And how far along those four years she's already gotten — that's a question she doesn't have an answer to.

Still, her expression betrays nothing. ]

Do I seem troubled to you, Mr. Fulton?

[acunningman]

[His eyes dart nervously from her to their surroundings. His fingers twitch. He worries the hem of his coat, leaving a faint smudge of ash there.]

Yes.

[But he's not sure if she will struggle against it, or if she has accepted and perhaps now revels in it and is therefore beyond his saving.]