Maggie's Reanimation (Part 1/3)

	And you thought it would be another boring night at the shop...

	There were really only four of you that ran the place. Aside from yourself, there was Martin (the former Air Force mechanic who owned the place), his young assistant Greg, and the unremarkable day shift desk clerk whose name you couldn't remember. You almost never forgot faces, but names just seemed to go in one ear and right out the other.
	Anyway, Martin recently started advertising his shop as "open 24 hours", in hope to strike a blow at the competing nandroid repair facility down the road. Being open 24 hours made no sense, as Martin wouldn't come in until 9 AM, which meant that if any customer dropped their bot off during the night, she would have to either power down manually or just stand and wait until he arrived. But on the plus side, the new hours meant you could get paid to sit in an empty waiting room all night and read/watch TV, as you would receive a midnight customer MAYBE once a week.
	You took a long sip from the now lukewarm mug of coffee in front of you before you noticed someone's car pull up in the lot outside. Quickly taking your feet off your desk, you shoved them back into your shoes while wiping the coffee off your lips. It may have only been 1:49 in the morning, but you were instructed to appear as professional as possible in front of customers at any hour.
	When you glanced back up, an outline of a large man carrying something was approaching the glass door. At the last possible second, you switched off the small television at your side before he entered.
	In hindsight, you probably didn't have to do that. The bell above the door jingled as he swung it open and stepped inside.
	"Hey, Matt!" his gruff voice announced, "Mahty's opened this place up all night now?"
It took you a second to remember the guy's name, but his Patriots sweatshirt and messy brown beard were definitely familiar.
	...Now you recalled him from his last visit back in early February. Even though he didn't own a bot himself, he brought this sporty-looking redheaded one in. He dropped her off that frosty morning on his way to work, she strolled into the repair room after addressing you as "bro", and then he picked her up in the late afternoon as the snow started falling.
	"Evening, uh... Dave!" you greeted, "Where've you been?"
With a grunt, he lifted a heavy-looking garbage bag from his side and placed it on the desk carefully. Based on its shape, there was clearly a limp droid inside.
	"Oh, I've been in South Carolina the past few months," he answered, "I'm committed to a Confederate reenactah regiment down theah."
Peering at the trash bag in front of you, your mind was full of questions: Is this bot simply not turning on? Is she missing limbs? Couldn't he just walk or carry her inside without stuffing her in this?
	Is something other than a nandroid inside?

	"So, uh, could Mahty fix this old girl up?" he requested.
	There was a silence that followed as you stood up, untied the handles, and pulled open the bag. You expected to see an actual Sterling-branded nandroid inside, or ANYTHING metal at least, which is why after you reached in pulled out a rotten wooden arm, you loudly scoffed.
	This was a joke, surely.
	"What the Hell is this, man?" you asked him with a frown. Dave was taken aback at your question, dropping his friendly smile and shoving his hands into his pockets.
	"Whatta ya mean?" he grumbled, "It's a nandroid, isn't it?"
You started rummaging through the bag to confirm that no machine was in there.
"A nandroid?!" you snapped, "You brought me a goddamn mahogany table in a trash bag! This thing isn't Sterling, Atlas, GR, or even..."
	Something hairy just made contact with your hand, abruptly pulling you out of your rant. You broke your gaze from him, grabbed the object with both hands, and quickly lifted it up out of the darkness.
	You jolted in surprise, almost dropping it on the desk, as you saw what would prove Dave right.
	It was... a head: the rotting head of the "table" you were given. Its hair was so dirty that it left black marks on your hands. Its electronic blue eyes were clearly installed somewhat recently, but the wooden casing surrounding them could not have been in worse condition. You were no carpenter, but you fully believed that this thing would need a new body if it were to function again.
	"Jesus, I've never heard of a WOODEN nandroid before," you commented.
"What, you've nevah heard of Dixie befaw?"
	Dixie? You had no idea who or what he was referencing.
"No I haven't... Where'd you find this thing anyway?"
	Dave took his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms, seemingly no longer annoyed at your tone, but still defensive of his request.
"Well, she was dug up ovah in Idaho, but I bawght her off some guy in South Carolina," he explained, "God knows how lawng she was in that dirt."
	Without a word, you inserted the head back into the bag and pulled the elastic handles, closing up the top. What'll most likely happen, you thought, is Martin will see this thing and immediately refuse to fix it. Just because he repaired bombers in 'Nam doesn't necessarily mean he knows how to build a covered wagon.
	You then cleared your throat and wiped your blackened hands on your already dirty jeans, mentally debating whether or not to turn him away.
	"Look..." he stated with sincerity, "Mahty owes me a favah, and even if he chahges extra, tell him I'll pay it no mattah what."
Easing back down into your comfortable leather chair, you had made up your mind. He was dead serious about his request, even if you weren't, and would Martin want you to turn down a paying customer?
	"Okay, Dave, I'll tell you what," you said, "I'm gonna leave this on Marty's workbench now, and he'll call you later this morning about whether he'll attempt to fix... 'her' or not."
	A big grin spread across his face faster than you could say: "...but I'm not optimistic."
	"Awright then!" he swiftly grabbed your hand and shook vigorously, "Night, Matt!" Wheeling about, he briskly walked towards the door and exited the shop, the little bell above announcing his departure.
	With the place to yourself again, you immediately exhaled and liberated your shoes from your feet. You were about to lean back and rest them on the desk, but remembered there was no room on it to do so. Eyeing the bag of "old splinters" in front of you, your mind started to wander towards the thought of her waking up and adjusting to the late 20th century, should Martin pull a miracle out of his ass.
	"What's in that brain of yours, honey?" you mumbled to the mound of black plastic... as if it would answer. Out of further curiosity, you chose to open it up yet again to inspect her closer.