Hummingbirds are a myth. They came from the sun a long time ago, my granma told me, spinning down like little jewels in the spring, blessing all they touched with their mystical beaks and bringing prosperity and ripe harvests back when there was land for the giving. She said they could bring the green touch to dry dirt and baked stone, and wherever they went happiness flowed like the river. 'Course, granma died with a bullet up her nose and a messy socket where her brains used to be, so I don't know just how close faith I'd put in her old stories. They're just myths, and no one cares about myths.

Still, I moved on and left her body for the beastants, and I took her name with me. There weren't much to workin off the edge long as you dint piss none off too sharp, and keep everyun watered in gunmetal 'r blood. I'm not much for the last one, and I don't have much of the first, never did and n'er did my granma for that, so I keep t' the edges where none can keep me tracked. I don't much keep the need of company nohows, so it works out for everyun.

Sides, not much to me. I can't fight, I don't talk pretty, I got no rich bloodline, no way with words and no higgly talent to make none wantin me. So long as I don't get up next to none's borders I'm left to my own. I like it that way. I talk to machines though, I pick up through the trash in the gloaming and out in the sun blessed, grabbin what parts I can not rustin too heavy and I piece em together. Granma used to have a box that played music, though it got wrecked far back, so I get the bots to play for me when I get the itchin.

It's pretty often now. Not that I'm lonely, see, not that I'm vain either. Skin and bones and dust keep me together, and that's all there'll be to see when I hitch off. I seen what pretty gets, too, and that's no way for my twiddly fingers to go on down. I like the bots and my wits and the music that plays for me, and I don't see the need to change it any time. And so far, none's seen the need to change it for me, though I don't know how that might last me forever.

The sun don't spin hummingbirds any more.

Name: Hummingbird, but she'll go by HB in a hitch.

Strengths: She fiddles well with machines, especially broken ones, but not in any really significant way. She just makes things how she likes them, there's no more genius to her than the next.

Weaknesses: Anti-social, gets confused easy, gets a temper on her when she gets too confused, doesn't know how to fight, cowardly, slow runner.

Possessions: A wealth of hoarded tools she's fixed to her liking, most of which fit inside of a pressed steel pack on her right arm that will spit out and retract tools at her leisure

a power pack for said tools

an outdated hoarfrost nav-clamp she's adapted to fit her right leg to give simple status updates on her bots

History

Her grandmother raised her, since her parents were too hopped up on drugs and following the Gabbahtron to really raise a kid, or even remember they had a kid. It's a miracle HB survived long enough to even make it to her grandmother, though the person who delivered the kid expected to get paid for it and was paid for it. The grandmother in question lived out in the sun blessed on a rough patch of broken terrain that was pretty much useless so no one really bothered her much.

HB was a bit simple in the head, and her granma never really expected much out of her. Probably had to do with the drugs her mom was on when she was pregnant, though no one stopped to ask or test the brat, and no one really cared – least of all HB. She grew up pretty much how she pleased, until an expanding gang saw fit to stop by one day and ask for suitable tribute. The argument resulted (for the grandmother was a tough old broad) in blood. HB didn't much like the blood, so she spun out of there pretty quick and took to wandering.

HB survived mostly on luck. Not much to eat out in the wastes, but she was skinny and ill fed to begin with so it didn't bother her much. She made a slim living off fixing broken machines (though sometimes she broke em worse and got chased out fearing for her life), and was happy enough since she didn't really know what happy was. She didn't miss her granma much, seeing as how she was a little bit broke up in her head, but she found she rather liked the company of the machines.

In an old busted city she made her first convert out of what had been a roller-tram for pedestrian traffic, small motor and minimum passenger load, and rigged up a speaker to it and scratched up a hoarfrost digi-pane so it played a screeching mimic of the music that plinked in her head. It wasn't terribly satisfactory, so she stayed in that empty city until she almost starved, tinkering on machines until the noises they produced faintly resembled something that could be considered music.

Over the years, she got better at it. She fashioned robot instruments, and robots to play the instruments, and would hold impromptu concerts grinning and clapping along as they played for her. Then she would move on, adding them to her database around her leg so she could keep track of them, so she could revisit them if she wanted to.

Sometimes she wandered too close to gang settlements, would tinker with dead bots that were not strictly trash, and she would get roughed up, but usually let go because she was just moving trash, and most of em thought she was funny and stupid and not worth time or energy (she didn't really get their threats, and she didn't have nothing they wanted, so what was the point besides having fun killing her? But she wasn't that great of a mark, and as long as she kept from the really psycho killers, she'd keep on), so she kept to her simple life.

Nice character, I like it. Approved. Oh it's another Kat character, no wonder.