Rob Roy
A/N: Ah, the poor requisition officer. He gets no love. So I decided to give him something of a story. Also, I've already been asked so I am going to say here and now that I will neither confirm or denied the identity of any unnamed persons featured. Speculation is fun and lets me have future plot bunnies.
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He was the unsung hero of the Normandy. Sure, it was Shepard, Alenko, Williams, and that jackass in the cockpit who were being given metals. But Rob Roy knew the truth—he was the man behind the curtain.
His name really wasn't Rob Roy; it was Corporal Robert Rovinsky, Requisition Officer. Rob to his friends, the Roy had been attached after a drunken one nightstand with a literature nut that liked to quote poetry mid-coitus. Not that many people got the reference. But there was a certain zip to the nickname. It was much catchier than Robert Rovinsky. Even if he had to deal with the occasional quizzical, "Like the cowboy?"
It wasn't that he was a gear in this massive machine, but rather the oil that keep everything running smoothly. Made sure that there were bullets in the guns, food on the table, medicine in the lab. All the little things that people took for granted. And they did take it for granted, no one ever walked up to him and said, "Hey thanks for procuring those fresh eggs. It's really nice not having to eat the freeze-dried ones." Not that he actually ever wanted to hear that. If Rob Roy was anything, he was full of himself, and hated such contrite and overused phrases such as "thank you". It was the more subtle acts of gratitude that he appreciated. Like Williams' soft "Whoa", when he actually relented and found her the Phoenix style armor in heavy. Even though it made her look like GI Barbie on steroids. Really, what kind of idiot goes into battle wearing white and pink? Oh well, she looked really hot in it, and that is what really matter to Rob Roy.
There were other benefits to the job. The ladies loved a man in the uniforms. He was at the bottom of the list for combatants, usually only deployed on milk runs to get in his hours. And this was a position of power. From one system to the next, he had connections. Rob Roy always knew a guy that knew a guy. What someone wanted, he could find, didn't matter if it was just an actual Vidalia onion or a Mark HMWSG shotgun with mods that were illegal on most planets. He could not only find them, but also deliver them at a great price to the consumer. And he had the power to make someone's life into a living hell. He never did it a cruel manner, just little subtle things. Such as making sure that there was only decaf coffee around.
And he dealt with more than just consumer goods. While maybe nowhere even close to being as extensive as the Shadowbroker's, he had his own information network. Scuttlebutt? He was scuttlebutt on the Normandy. All rumors came to and went from him. When everyone else had been tittering behind their hands about the fact that asari had developed a rather school girlish crush on Shepard, he already knew that the commander responded in a less than dignified manner to the advances. According to his inside source within the medical bay (a certain doctor who will go unnamed) Shepard had more or less squeaked "I like men!" before fleeing with her face as red as her hair. But that really wasn't that good of a rumor; it was already known aboard that Shepard was very uncomfortable with her flock of asari admirers.
Plus nothing really raised the morale of the men than the talk of lesbians.