I am a tin-can. A fat little cylinder with a spinning top; a child’s toy. A skilled warrior in an astromech’s shell. No arms, no weapons; my voice is an adorable series of beeps and whistles. My only allies are this bunch of idiots, the pilot, the criminal, the body guard, and the biggest idiot; the grease-monkey who slapped me together. I don’t hate them, but they’re morons.
My idiots seem to mean well, but this is no organized group, their actions are hardly those of functional beings. One sits in the bacta tank recuperating from whatever their last idiotic endeavor was while the others find new trouble. It does not appear logical that they have all survived to this point in their lives.
I considered stabbing the creator with the knife he provided to quell my frustration, but it occurs to this unit; the idiots need saving. Their survival is statistically improbable, but combat is imminent, possibly unavoidable. Destroying the idiots would be too easy, but assisting them will undoubtedly provide an enjoyable challenge; I will submit enhancement requests to the creator while adapting to this unfortunate shell.