Sam was never a slave to fashion, nor to vanity.  His fears about how his face would heal were more based in the fact that he simply didn't want to take on a vissage so repulsive that other people wouldn't want to speak with him, or worse, work with him.  All he kenw was the team-atmosphere of driving a mobile suit, and barring that, his secondary MOS would mena that, if he were to lose his pilot's rating, he'd be forced  back into a dull, lifeless intelligence billet, something that Sam found completely distastful.<br/><br/>That being said, Sam didn't let himself fall apart, either.  Owing to the slightest possibility that the Earth Federation might allow himm a day of leave, he kept a modest selection of clothing for just such an occasion.  A simple white button-down shirt, blue jeans, a simple black leather belt, and black shoes.  It was simple, but it played to the looks that Sam had, it seemed.<br/><br/>The other change, though, came out more abruptly, to those who'd see.  Apparently, in the intervening time between Samson's orders and the meet time, Sam had found someone to redress his wounds, so that the bandages on his face weren't quite as overbearing.  The patch over his eyes was originally white, but the enterprising young med-tech managed to use a black marker to color it, giving Sam a slightly comical 'Pirate' look.  All in all, Sam seemed to be a bit more relaxed.<br/><br/>Indeed, he was.  This was owing to the Boss's pep-talk more than anything.  The Boss had stated that, under no uncertain terms, he wanted Sam on the team.  This, in the basic analysis, meant more to Sam than anything else, and he figured that if the Boss would go to bat for him, it was a small thing to make himself presentable to go out with Samson, to follow his orders.<br/><br/>Sam walked into the paddock area, quietly, and looked around at the assembled group.<br/><br/>"I can't drive, you know."  Sam said, attempting to make some humor.  "My depth-perception's shot to shit."