Lion Head Mesa breathin' soft on my skin

Medusa was quiet in the background. 

Unfamiliar things unnerved her. And in so many ways but one, Gucci was that. Midas was brave, and fielded it all well without her. Medusa remained in the shadows, but close still. Medusa did not like Jawahir, but at least she had been familiar. Medusa did not like that she had gone. 

Midas posed good questions. And gave good answers. Medusa, at last, came to his side at Gucci's final words. She did not deny him the reason he had come, but she pointed out, perhaps a little colder than any her age ought to be (though such was natural for one who knew very little warmth): We taking care of each other, and here she leaned against Midas. 

Her suspicion was apparent. But... she did not rally against his claim. Like Midas, there was something familiar about him... something that caused her to say no more than this, because... well, whatever a papa was, perhaps that was who this was. They had known slave; they had known teacher. 

Papa... it was new. 

she relied upon Midas to choose, though. Ultimately, she followed his path.