Kafka had meant the question for Lisa alone--a quiet thing, murmured just between the thrum of the engine and the comforting weight of her girlfriend pressed against her side. It had been meant to ground them both, a tether in the quiet churn of water. She hadn't meant to invite an audience.
She didn't mind. Not exactly. If anything, it saved time. Still, she took the moment to adjust--drawing Lisa closer, her arm wrapping more fully around her waist. She could offer little in the way of answers, but she could offer comfort.
Castorice spoke first. A sister, a memory, a voice mistaken for someone else. Kafka barely reacted when the boat jerked under them, the demi-god making short work of the seaweed that had snarled in the motor. Then came Citlali, confirming she too had heard a voice, and she speaks of fates and bones and binding intangible forces into tangible objects.
Kafka's gaze flicks to Lisa, but then her eyes are sliding past her girlfriend to land on Mira.
"When did you hear it?" she asks lightly, lifting her gaze to the group. "The voice. What were you doing?" And then, because it would hardly be fair to keep digging for answers without reciprocating, she offers her own answer, eyes settling on their sole remaining male: "I heard it just before we departed for the island--when the tour guide helped me onto the boat. Strange timing, don't you think?"
She let the thought hang in the air, the implication gentle.
"Hey, you've lived here a while," Kafka muses aloud, her voice dipping just slightly. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
Kafka watches as his gaze sweeps the group, cataloguing his expression. "Uh, no," he says, "I've never heard any voice myself, or heard of anyone hearing any voices either."
Now, wasn't that interesting? Who admits to being the outlier that easily?
Kafka rolls 3 movement. Nothing happens!