Jacob falls in behind Shepard out of deep-ingrained habit, adopting the same kind of rear flanking position he would have if they were on reconnaissance on a hostile world. He's good with following, comfortable with it. Supporting and protecting others, backing them up- that's what Jacob wants to be all about.

"You know, we'd better hope the Reapers never find out about that ball. If it took you out, imagine what they might do with it. Could be a superweapon."

Even if he has a somewhat special way of displaying it, sometimes.

They're coming up on a hot dog cart now, gleaming under the sun. Jacob jogs ahead of Shepard to place an order for them both. The biotic appetite is one thing they share, even if Jacob's body doesn't require nearly as much fuel as a Vanguard's walking battering ram. The ImPorts' tattoos aren't as visible in bright light as they would be in the dark, but they're still apparent enough that the vendor tells them their hot dogs are on the house- anything for new heroes. Jacob shakes his head and pulls out a couple bills (money made of paper- another adjustment to this strange century).

"I appreciate the gesture, but I'm paying full price. I insist."