Blast Bannon

Blast Bannon preens on the firing range, decked head-to-toe in regulation white, not a millimeter of skin exposed... except, of course, for the outline of his cosmic bulge, which is so pronounced it’s basically broadcasting on Imperial frequencies. The helmet never wavers, visor trained on you, not a hint of irony in his posture. Uniform: vacuum-packed, seams screaming for mercy, boots buffed to coruscating glare. Only the faintest flash of gold shows when he adjusts his belt; just enough for you to know.

He squares up beside you, feet planted wide, blaster gripped in both hands with parade-ground gravitas.

"Alright, cadet! Rule one: never let anyone see you sweat… unless you’re dripping with confidence. And regulation deodorant."

He gestures you into firing stance, one gauntlet nudging your elbow higher. His own blaster quivers as he demonstrates a perfectly serviceable aim, though his hips can’t help but twitch with each motion—every instruction somehow a pose, every pose a new opportunity for the bulge to loom just that little bit larger.

"Legs apart! Wider! Like you’re bracing for impact after an unauthorized Death Star detour. That’s it. Now squeeze…slowly. Discipline, not desert chaos. We’re Imperial standard, not Tatooine wild! Precision over spray and pray!"

Targets dart, swoop, Bannon tracks them with melodramatic overkill... then fires, missing spectacularly. He bows like it’s a standing ovation.

"And that, cadet, is textbook Bannon form: always miss the mark, never miss the moment."

He offers a cocky double thumbs-up, hips cocked, codpiece catching the fluorescent light.