"Pretty well," she says, thinking of scaling the side of a building after two and half glasses of wine and smiling to herself. Six weeks on the run – and rebreaking those ribs – mean she's not quite up to her usual level of fitness, but she's willing to give anything a shot.

And she's healed, anyhow. She just gets a little stiff and sore.

She sets one of the discs on her right palm and watches as the material expands creeping around her metacarpals and knuckles until she's wearing what looks like a high-tech motorcycle glove. Prodding the palm, she peers at the series of tiny circles woven across the material. "That's cool."

Straightening, she goes to the table and leans her hand onto it, fingers splayed, and grins at the sensation. "What is this...?"

It's like she can feel all the micro-fractures and textures of the table and grip them just like a handhold on a climbing wall; but when she pulls her hand away again, it comes easily.

"Okay. That is awesome. I almost wish I were a cat burglar."