Jimmy was, at his core, a robot.
He had specific coding that caused him to react a certain way to certain stimuli.
He did not do anything that he was not programmed to do.
He could not attack anyone he perceived as a friend. He could not allow any of his friends to come to harm. It was physically impossible for him to disobey or break any of the rules hard-coded into his system, whether in malicious or compassionate intent.
He was a very simple machine.
Despite this, there was something about him that caused the Commander to drum his fingers against the front dashboard and sneak side glances towards the driver's seat in distrust ever since Jimmy was first given to them earlier that day. Even the Commander himself wasn't entirely sure what brought on these stabs of distaste. What was normally a linear path in his mind of cause and effect was instead a single blip. He had no idea where it came from, and he was almost certain it would move at any moment, even if he didn't know where to.
This sort of uncertainty greatly displeased the Commander.
The Commander always preferred to maintain an air of authoritativeness. He maintained responsibility for all that occurred on the BattleTram, and to his fellow team members. Part of this reputation involved having a good grasp of any events that unfolded at any moment on the premises, and damn well understanding their motives and intentions.
That being said, this prickling sense of uncertain distrust that bubbled up from his chest into his throat did little to boost his confidence. He was not going to be reduced to cluelessness. That damn robot had something malicious about him, and he was going to figure out what.
It was the android himself who broke the unsettling silence.
"Is something wrong, sir?"
"No," The Commander spoke suddenly. If there was one thing the Commander knew about himself, it was that his mouth tended to move a bit faster than his brain did. Of course there was something wrong, you idiot.
"Yes," he corrected. "Why are you looking at me weird like that?" he shouted incriminatingly after a moment's hesitation.
"I'm not looking at you at all, sir. I have been directing my focus towards the road for the past 56 minutes."
"Well," the Commander sputtered. "Stop not-looking at me weird like that."
The BattleTram swerved briefly as Jimmy struggled to come up with the proper response to this request. After a mere half second of juggling a few hundred thousand possible strings, he gave up.
"I don't understand, sir."
"Stop calling me that."
"Is being called sir displeasing, sir?"
Great, he was a smart-ass as well as a potential threat. The Commander felt about as secure as a young boy, wrapped up in warm, soft blankets and strapped tightly and firmly to the belly of a roaring jet plane.
Straps, he thought to himself. Experimentally, he timed himself to see how quickly he could reach up to his seat belt buckle. He wanted to know how much time he had to escape if Jimmy suddenly jumped him.
He decided that this sort of complex mathematics and statistical analysis could wait until the drive was over and he could get someone else to do it. Keeping a hand wrapped firmly around the freedom buckle, he let his head roll to the side.
All this uncertainty would make any man tired. Perhaps it would be safe to rest his eyes for just a moment.
After all, robots don't have souls.