[Stephen is dressed in plainclothes for this task, which doesn’t make the sight any less odd for the random passerby. A sheaf of posters cradled in the crook of one arm, he moves along the side of a building facing a sidewalk’s foot traffic with the look of a man on a mission — focused, utterly determined to get this stack posted onto the bricked, flat surface. His free hand plasters them up one by one by one—]

Move, please.

[—nearly shouldering past anyone who happens to be standing in the way, or walking by in the opposite direction. Stephen continues to tack them to the wall, the shape he’s creating seemingly oddly… circular.

Get to close, maybe, and he points with an accusing finger, fliers snapping in the breeze, kept close by a tight grip.]

Don’t touch them. They’re exactly where they should be. If you take them down I’m going to make sure you put them right back where you found them.

[Stephen’s dressed for the occasion once he’s on the circus grounds proper, the red of his cloak practically a beacon wherever he goes. He dismisses questions from those who ask if he’s one of the acts, or workers who tell him, jokingly, that they’d love a get-up like that for themselves. He isn’t here for frivolity and fun — this is an investigation, after all, one that requires his full attention to poke and prod at, and hope something useful falls out.

Which means, of course, that eventually he’s wrangled into a carnival game or two, just because it’s inevitable.

He’s at a ring toss at some point, throwing plastic, colorful rings at a space lined with glass bottles, their necks long and obviously somehow rigged to never catch a ring. On the tenth try, Stephen’s attempt is much the same as the rest: the ring bounces off the glass, and bounces again, and again, and clatters right into the gutter. He rolls his eyes at the attendant.]

Has anyone actually ever won anything? Wait, don’t answer that — I forget where I am. Standing right before an exercise— [another failed toss.] —in futility.

[Later, he watches as a very large, very buff worker takes a heavy-looking hammer to show him how easy, how simple! the high striker game truly is. The man slams the hammer at the base of the tall tower and the whole thing lights up in a flurry of energy and chiming noise.

Give it a try? he turns and asks Stephen with a smile in his tone.]

With hands like these? I don’t think so.

[Beyond that, really, does he look like a strongman type of guy? (The answer is no, he doesn’t.)

Maybe he’s more suited to games of chance, such as when he finds himself before a huge tub of little, colorful rubber ducks. Pluck one out of the water, turn it over, and if you get one with a lucky number? You get a prize! And there are many of them, huge stuffed animals of various types, strung up just behind the attendant and awaiting their freedom.

Okay, fine. Stephen’s hand hovers above the array of rubber ducks, deciding which one to choose. If someone’s nearby, maybe he’ll mutter—]

What’s your favorite color?

[He isn’t inclined to enter the funhouse just yet, but he finds it particularly hard to ignore in his wanderings. The people stumbling out look confused, lost, or searching, and he has an inkling that’s not just the multitude of mirrors at work.

His hand comes to rest on the shoulder of someone’s who’s just exited, brow taut with visible concern.]

Just stop and breathe for a second. Are you all right?

(( ooc: Or a different idea! Feel free to hit my plotting post here if you had something specific in mind. ))