Paul's sense of skill with children resembles little more than a nearly perfect U-curve. He'd been extraordinarily confident in the beginning that all children needed was clear reasoning, patience, and access to appropriately sized knives. The last had been a particular point of contention.

Then there was the long and troubled journey through actual parenting, which has been a work of decades that will end when Paul's bones rest in his grave and not a minute before, and he's learned to keep his opinions about child-sized knives much more discreet.

"And the universe brought them back to you," one of the children declares, with solemn shrewdness, "Everything unfolded the way it was supposed to."

Paul makes note of the girl and gives her an approving wink, which makes her straighten her back and fold her hands even more primly in front of herself. It's good to know some of his diplomatic philosophy lessons have stuck.

"That was a long time ago. Things were much more complicated then. Now, everything is much more...peaceful." Paul rubs Midoriya's bicep soothingly, feeling some of the scars that earned that peace underneath the span of his palm. "This was the right time for them to come back to us. Thanks to our very clever and dedicated scouts - isn't that right?"

The scouts in question beam, and a chorus of affirmation spills out of them. There's another crush of little bodies around them as the more sensitive children reach out to pat Midoriya's elbows and sides, offering their tactile support. They're a very touchy bunch, this particular generation.