Hurrah for Dixie (Introduction)

	You had heard a rumor going around that the Yankees had recently established an infantry regiment of nandroid volunteers. The idea of nandroids being issued muskets raised so many questions. Did the Union not already have enough human volunteers across the numerous states and populous cities? Why would any family let their house maid run off to join the army? Why would any nandroid PREFER to be at the receiving end of dozens of rifles instead of dusting tabletops or cooking? The vision of several hundred adorable robot girls charging at you with fixed bayonets made you chuckle. It was certainly too ridiculous to be true.
	The cold March afternoon air didn't seem to damage your high spirits, as you walked through town back home from your unremarkable job at the local library. The faces of those you passed by were friendly and optimistic that the Second War of American Independence would be yet another victory.
	One wouldn't easily find the village of Queensgrove on a map of South Carolina, much less on a map of the whole CSA. It wouldn't be written in such large text as Charleston or Columbia, but it existed nonetheless in the northeastern corner of the state along the shallow Cat Tail River. Regardless of its popularity, it had everything a town needed to sustain itself, and living conditions were anything but stressful in its wooded outskirts where your house stood.
	The whole war with the North didn't gain your interest at first. When all your oldest and closest friends 'heroically' volunteered to fight for Southern independence last year, you refused to join them. They, and even you at the time, thought the whole conflict would be over in a matter of months.
	"What's the point?", you told them when asked about your 'cowardly' decision, "What more could I possibly do that any other fool in South Carolina couldn't? Why should I risk my life for such a quick war?"
	If only they knew. They thought it would be so brief and one-sided. It had now been almost a full year since the bombardment of Fort Sumter, and the clash at Manassas proved to both the North and South that this conflict would be anything but clean and short. Good lord, you were glad you weren't a soldier.
	Your parents shared your apathy for the war, and were more concerned that you were 23 years old and still not married, unlike your older brother, who you had to hear the accomplishments of EVERY time they visited. The truth was, all the girls you knew growing up now believed you to be too dull and, in their own words, lacking any sense of duty to your country.
	As your mind was in other places, you managed to walk past the town hall, the general store, the butcher shop, the bank, the other general store, and several multi-story homes without realizing how fast you were moving. You were eager, as usual, to get home to the one person that understood and cared about you other than your parents.
	 She was actually a gift from them for your birthday the year prior. Your father, who owned a small trading company up in Newport, Rhode Island, had impulsively snagged a nandroid at a reasonable price off a shipment being imported from England. After an (assumed) argument with your mother about taking responsibility for something they didn't need, they both realized they could dump her on you under the guise of being a gift. Upon opening the wooden crate containing her that summer evening, you were told that since your brother had joined the army, and he already owned a house slave to help cook and tend to his child, this droid would be just perfect for you.
	You carefully lifted her out of the box and stood her up to get a better view. Your father promised she would singlehandedly be a better indoor/outdoor worker than a dozen slaves, (as well as much cuter, he quietly added) and would be perfect in the hopefully soon event you buy a larger home for your hypothetical wife and children. "The question is," you asked during a break from his ramble, "what should I name her?"
	"Well, on the carriage ride here, I saw this street band playing on the corner right outside William's Bakery. They were singing about the South, or "Dixie Land" as they called it, and that name just stuck in my head." He paused as he looked down at the nandroid and ruffled her moderately messy brown hair before looking back up at you with a grin, "Dixie sounds like a good name for a Southern droid, wouldn't you say, Anon?"
	After a few seconds, when you failed to respond, your mother chimed in to back up your father's suggestion. "It's a great name, Anon!"
	You were still inspecting the bot all over. She was about a foot shorter than you, with a slender, feminine body made of polished wood that somewhat resembled the color of skin. Her hair felt very soft, but you weren't sure what material it was made of. You slightly bent down to get a closer look at her arms. The joints in the wrists and elbows were capable of rotating 360 degrees, which mildly impressed you. However, an obvious question needed answering.
	"Uh... how does she turn on?" you broke your gaze from the machine as you asked your father. He sat up in his chair and spoke, most likely parroting what the Englishman at the dock told him.
	"She's like an oversized pocket watch. There should be a little brass door on her upper back. Open it and give her a few good winds." You slowly did so, glancing up at your father every few seconds for confirmation you were doing it properly, and the robot started to twitch with movement. Her large glass eyes gradually opened as her pupils scanned the room for the first time before fixating on you.
	Her head swiveled to face you in a sudden motion, causing your heart to skip a beat and your mother to let out a small yelp in surprise. Following a brief moment of suspense, the machine blinked several times, then grew a large grin and extended her hand for you to shake. Her unexpectedly loud and excited voice with a thick Cockney accent jolted the room awake.
	"PLEASED TO MEET YOU, SIR! YOU HAVE A VERY NOICE HOME! HAVE YOU GOT A NAME FOR ME, SIR?"
	"..uh, um, I- yes, it's- Yes! It's a pleasure, uh... Dixie", you managed to stammer out as your palm met her hard wooden hand in an awkward motion. If you could have read your parents' minds at that moment, you were sure they would have thought the same thing as you: "That accent needs to go".