The waiting scratches iron pins down Paul's spine. Part of him wants to blame it on his prescience, or some instinct of alarm, but it's more basic and protective than that. He knows Midoriya doesn't like people staring at him. Paul wants to come up with any reason to make it stop.

They could have gone back. They still could.

"I don't- " Paul starts to say, halfway prepared to pitch leaving and trying from the top.

"Are these his masters?" The Mariana-shape asks Midoriya, voices rippling like her light. Paul narrows his eyes at her, or her approximation, because he's never had quite the relationship of religious obedience he should have.