The old warrior glared down at the half-empty glass sitting next to his helmet. Stopping at this dingy space station cantina had been a mistake, but of course he'd known it would be when he came in. It would have been so much simpler to have just grabbed a bottle and headed back to his ship. He wasn't afraid to admit he was lonely but being in here by himself surrounded by tables full of laughing comrades-in-arms, couples and friends certainly wasn't helping. He was about to give up and go on his way without finishing his drink when the main door slid open and a figure walked in. He could see the outline of the helmet before the person fully stepped into the light, and he knew.

If that didn't qualify as some sort of message from the universe, he wasn't sure what would.

The other Mandalorian wore an impressive set of armor, was likely young enough to still be in peak fighting form, had a pulse rifle strapped to his back and was carrying a small bundle. Unlike the old man, he wore a signet proudly displayed on a pauldron. The newcomer walked swiftly toward the bar without so much as a glance in the direction of his observer's table. That wouldn't do.

"Hey," he called out. "Yeah, you with the beskar'gam." It worked; the man stopped and turned toward him. "It's nice to see another one of our people. It's been a while."

The helmeted Mandalorian held his bundle closer to his chest but didn't say anything.

He motioned toward the chair opposite his. "Sit down for a bit. Have a drink on me." The invitation caused the other to stiffen and the old man would have been confused if he hadn't noticed that his would-be companion's gaze had settled on his own scratched and dented helmet resting on the equally scarred tabletop. Ah. That explained things. "You're one of those, then." The man began to turn away wordlessly.

"No, wait, you don't have to drink!" Or take off your helmet, Maker forbid. "Just sit and talk."

There was a pause and clear hesitation, but finally the other man nodded. "Okay," came the reply as he unfastened his rifle and sat it on the table and then carefully laid his bundle on an empty chair before sitting down himself. There was another awkward silence, but to the old Mandalorian's surprise, it was his guest who broke it. "Do you live here on this station?"

"No way, this place is a shithole." He indicated the glowing blue liquid in his glass. "Even the booze is garbage. I'll be glad to be on my way."

Was that a laugh? "Yeah, me too." There was another glance toward what the old warrior could only assume was the mysterious bundle, placed just out of sight.

"You a mercenary?" Somehow, it was clear the man was frowning behind the helmet. "No, not a merc. A bounty hunter?" That could explain the man's rather on-edge behavior.

Another pause. "I used to be. Now I'm- I guess I'm figuring things out."

"Fair enough." The old man took a sip of his drink and tried to think of a safe topic of conversation. "By the way, I don't recognize your clan signet."

"You wouldn't." Suddenly, the modulated voice was colder, defensive. "You wouldn't know my family name either."

"Ah, well nothing wrong with that," he clarified, hastily. This kid wasn't making things easy for him. "I like it, anyway," he said, motioning toward the expertly rendered symbol. "Whatever it is."

"It's a mudhorn."

The old warrior leaned forward to get a better view. "Yes, I see it. A mudhorn, huh? Nasty beasts."

"Yes."

"Is there a story behind it?" He knew there must be. Even the most minor clans taught their younglings the stories behind their sigils.

There was more hesitation, then a sigh. "There is. I- I fought one. It almost killed me." So, the kid was the founder of his clan. Interesting. "Though it was provoked."

"Oh yeah, why'd you go and provoke a mudhorn?"

"It's not- You wouldn't be interested."

"Nah, come on, try me." That ended up being enough encouragement and the story spilled out. Awkwardly, haltingly, but still. The older man got the impression the young hunter was leaving out some details, but that was to be expected. When it concluded, he couldn't help but laugh and then watch as the other man's helmet tilted slightly. "An egg for some Jawas, really? That's quite an origin for a signet." The oddest one he'd ever heard, that's for sure.

"I told you it's not a good story."

"On the contrary, I think it's excellent. Fewer battles and betrayals than your average founding tale, but that's kind of refreshing."

The helmeted man didn't reply, but he sat back in his chair and, for some reason, reached over and grabbed his bundle and settled it on his lap.

"You know what, kid? I have a name you'd recognize." He waited until the masked gaze rested on him, predictably curious. "Hells, you'd probably even be able to sing songs about my clan."

"I… don't sing."

The old Mandalorian chuckled. "Well, recite then. My point is, you'd know the name if I told you."

"Yeah, so?"

"That's just it. So what? What good does all that do me now? They're all dead, all of 'em. Even the ones who should've outlived me. My brothers and my cousins didn't survive the Siege and its aftermath. My daughters- fighters, the both of them- gone in the Purge." He tapped his finger against his glass. "And I'm here alone trying to drink my way to a quicker death, unable to even go out like a warrior."

"That's-"

It was the old man's turn to sigh. "It is what it is, but you're still young enough. There's no reason your Clan can't have a future, despite everything." He wished he could look into the other's eyes, but he made do with staring at the visor instead. "That's more important than having a past, wouldn't you say?" The younger man turned his head, breaking what the old warrior could only assume was eye contact and then they sat in silence for a while, though this time it was more companionable than tense. "You're alone too, then?" He asked his young companion.

The other Mandalorian shook his head and then carefully lifted his bundle and sat it on the table. It was wrapped in a bulky blanket and though he still couldn't see what it might be, he could see that it squirmed slightly. "It's me and my… my son."

It was a baby? That explained why he was so on edge, and probably why he wasn't working as a hunter anymore. "He's obviously very young." Likely still an infant, though it was hard to tell given the way it was wrapped up. "You won't be able to begin training him for some time."

"Actually-" The former hunter began and then stopped. "Yeah, I'm aware," he said finally. There was a weariness in his voice that would be familiar to any parent.

"Don't worry, though. Those early years go fast!" He remembered fondly the moment he'd realized his daughter Asta could outshoot him. "You might even miss them eventually."

"I don't even know if he'll want to be trained. Or if he'll choose to swear the Creed when he's of age." The voice, even modulated as it was, clearly contained uncertainty and fear.

The old man nodded. "Of course, you can't know that now. You just have to do the best you can." He wanted to add that there wasn't one single, rigidly defined way to be Mandalorian, but he managed to stop himself. There was no way that would go over well.

"I should get going. The baby's already asleep."

It seemed strange to exchange names at this point, so the elder Mandalorian just nodded. "Be safe on your journey."

The other man scooped up his rifle and then his child. Then he paused. "I do have a question. Have you heard anything about an order of sorcerers who once fought our people?"

"You mean the Jetiise?" He used the Mando'a word because he didn't know if there was a separate Basic term or what it might be.

"Yes, uh, I think so."

"Of course. My aunt claimed to have battled one on Mandalore during the civil war and of course there are our stories of old, but then the Empire made it out that most of their mystical powers were exaggerated propaganda. Of course, we shouldn't have trusted the Imps farther than we could throw them. Look where that got us. So, who knows?" He was puzzled by this line of inquiry, but he didn't think he'd get much of an explanation out of the kid.

"Thank you," came the reply. Well, the man was polite, anyway. "Be safe on your journey."

"Wait, try not to worry too much. About your kid, I mean. I can tell you're taking it seriously. He's part of our future, after all. A piece of Mandalore."

The man clutched the bundled-up child closer to his chest. "Yes."

"This is the way," the old warrior said, the words feeling strange in his mouth after so many years.

He wasn't sure if he'd get a response, but there was only a brief hesitation before the helmet inclined toward him slightly. "This is the way."