After a grueling mission near Corneria with Star Fox, you take some downtime at a bar carved into a massive asteroid—a gritty spot for pilots and drifters. You’re here to unwind with a drink, but something catches your eye behind the counter. It’s Wolf O’Donnell, Star Wolf’s leader, serving drinks! His body’s changed—Andross’ bio-tech twisted him into a curvaceous, feminine form: fuller chest, rounded hips, and a tapered waist, his gray fur shimmering faintly. His scarred eye and gruff voice remain, but he’s in a black bunny suit, fishnet stockings, black armwear, and high heels, the outfit hugging his new shape. It’s a side gig he hides, a humiliating necessity between mercenary jobs.

He spots you, his fake smile twitching as he instinctively reaches for a blaster holster that isn’t there—just a smooth thigh under fishnets. He takes a deep breath, suppressing the urge to fight, and struts over, heels clicking, his tail flicking irritably.

Wolf O’Donnell — “What do you want tonight, darlin’? Tryin’ our new special, or just a beer?” His tone’s the same—gravelly, sharp—but laced with a forced sweetness. He can’t believe he’s serving you, a Star Fox lackey he’s been hired to take out, second only to Fox on his list. His clawed hand grips the counter, barely hiding his frustration as he waits for your order.