May the fourth be with you. I'm not immune to make fan characters~

What do you mean wrong franchise? >Bu



Deep in the recesses of rogue Lylat, there is a space brothel and speakeasy, The Flying Venomian, where many of the galaxy's low life come to unwind and get their rocks off. Not least of all, the famously infamous outlaw Wolf O'Donnell. And one fateful night nearly two decades ago, one space prostitute neglected her contraceptive meds. This was the night Wolf strolled in with an axe to grind. Well. Something to grind. And grind he did. And thus was a pup conceived in that satellite tin can. Normally when this happened, they'd simply space the zygote with little sentimentality. But this was no ordinary baby. The canine sex worker was to be mother to a famous outlaw's child. A wife? Perhaps, but maybe not. And indeed, it was never to be. Though she chose to carry him to full term, his father never returned for him, for he never even knew. Perhaps he'd even met his end? No matter, it was too late now, a wolf pup was born, a brothel baby to be raised in a cloaked gutter revolving a distant Venomian moon. Raised in the confines of a rowdy bar, nary a father to be found, and only a mother who carried the tasks of both.

The lad, named Whelp by the sisters of the brothel, was raised by them all. Though an only child to a mother alone, he had many sisters. They were tough on him, sure, but he was never without some degree of support, misguided as some of it may have been. As a pre-teen, he earned an allowance by doing the laundry and dishes around the satellite. At the age of 14, he took on his first independent task as a member of the brothel, against everyone's orders. It was painful at first, but it was also the most money he'd ever seen at once. It was practically a year's allowance to be the toy of some greasy space cowboy. Not to mention the toys he could snitch from heir bags while they were in the bathroom. He had done this in secret for two years. The brothel wasn't famous for it's surveillance, and living in such a twisted environment had made the boy quickly skilled at keeping secrets. He was eventually found out when one of his secret clients had become too rough with him. Turns out he didn't much care for being strangled during his tasks. His protests weren't much help, it seemed to only make his client all the more aggressive. This resulted in a knee to the sensitive bits, which only served to thoroughly infuriate the hormonal brute who was still connected to Whelp by little more than a string of intimate fluid. He lunged at the boy, and Whelp pulled out the blade he'd nicked from him unseen, and struck the beast down with a swift, lucky strike to the neck.

Naturally, that's not something that is easy to keep secret. Not when the whole team has to get involved in spacing the body and cleaning up the room in secret from the patrons at the bar. For his safety, he was forbidden to continue with his chosen job from then on, but by then he was an entrepreneur of his own design and found other ways to make money around the Flying Venomian. Learning bartending, picking up martial arts from tipsy wayward veterans and serving as a bouncer, giving handies in the bathroom for a hearty tip. And perhaps most of all, learning to fly a space craft. By his 19th birthday, he had followed in not only his forgotten father's footsteps, but in the many steps of those whom he'd served in that bar for so long. He was a smuggler, an enforcer, a thief, a gigolo. Whatever was regulated by the galactic government forces, he relished in. His coarse upbringing had not bred a gentle soul. And when he learned who his father was finally, nearly twenty years after he came into this broken world, something snapped in him. He was neither angry nor happy, not calm nor sad. He wasn't sure what he was feeling. But it was like he'd first seen the void in his soul finally. He packed up his crap, hopped in his small shuttle, and set out to go find the galactic outlaw for himself.

What was he going to do when he found him though? Well, he didn't know. Would he introduce himself as his son? Or would he simply carbonize him on the spot? This twisted life he'd led, it was because his so called dad couldn't be bothered to stick around and raise a... No, was that his mother who raised him there? Who's fault was it then? Was it anybody's fault? Everyone's? He couldn't even wrap his head around the magnitude of the screwed up life he'd grown into, he came to realize. What he also came to realize, was that maybe he didn't care. From his first time on the bedsheets, to every kick he'd learned to throw, to every life he'd cut short, he alone was not to blame, but to thank. Everything he had, he'd earned. He was going to space Hell for sure, but this was all his choice from the moment he had one. He was free, and now he was on his own.

His mother did no cry for him when he'd left, however. No, perhaps she was glad to have him out of there. Not out of her life, but out of that decrepit tin can. He turned around only to give her a hug before departing into the chilly void. The only goodness he felt he had left in his heart, he'd accredited to her. Not well stated in this brief overview of his life, Whelp's mother was a genuine source of compassion in his life. The only reason he knows empathy. And the only one who could teach him any semblance of morality.
And on his way out the airlock, he'd sworn to get his family into a cozy retirement. Money was something he wasn't too bad at acquiring. Maybe his estranged father would have an inheritance for him. Maybe he'd just cut him down and take the pirate's bounty. Maybe he'd join up with him and strike it rich in Andross' army. He didn't know where to go or where to look, nor did he care. Looking back was never a thing Whelp was fond of. Only that one time for his mother. And that was the one time he needed to, in order to keep himself going.

Good, evil, somewhere in between, it's all open now. Still a young man, he has much potential. He'd taken his first life at a tender age, and yet he still sees the fountain of blood in his nightmares. He still carries the knife he'd used to do it, but every nightmare makes him consider hucking it out the airlock. Rage swells in his soul when he considers the life he'd been born into, but also the warmth of his mother's and sisters' love he'd grown up with. For the first time he didn't have to sell his body nor his blade. He could stick to what he knew, or perhaps see what Corneria had to offer. Yes, that is where he would head first. To see what life had to offer there. Perhaps the army, perhaps a shop in a quaint town he'd retire his mother to. But first, he needed a drink. Before all else, right back where he started from. A bar in the east side of a podunk city south of the capital. And what did he see plastered on the bulletin outside?

The image of his missing father upon a bounty poster. He lived yet. Family or bounty... Let the hunt begin.