[i]JT sighed inwardly as he looked outside the ship's windows from his room, strapping on the last of his armour. He applied the gauntlet onto his right hand as protection, each of the exploding ships a harrowing reminder of what could happen to the ship's crew at any given moment in time. Sure he acted all happy and gleeful to his crew, he had to keep spirits up, but really? JT was scared shitless in any space battle, he wasn't a pilot and rarely trusted others to drive the same cars as him, let alone fly him in a ship - alongside others working with him - straight to their deaths. It didn't comfort him that he had to don his armour once more, which was always a feeling bringing memories of shame to him. Regardless of how he felt in the moment, the sorrowful Marshal gazed into his reflection in the window, just barely able to make out the rough, tanned mug and well-kept beard on his face. It was enough to make him remember to put his helmet on, which prompted him to load up his guns. From the G11-Chainsaw Turrets mounted to his hips, to the Winchester Rifle on his back beside Triple Tap and the nuclear launcher, he stockpiled on ammo and put a few of his .50 Caliber revolvers on his hips,chef ore sliding a few Smith and Wesson's under his armour for if he needed to disengage. The armour was fierce despite being primarily dirt-brown, with his duster and hat overtop it. He would make way to the loading bay of the ship, an E-11 in his hands as he waited for the doors to open and hell to reign freely once more. [/i]