She laughs, having a fair idea of what kind of world - what kind of story - she's from now.

"Treasure Island," she says - tossing her a wrapped moist towellete.

She unwraps one of her own, wiping her mouth and hands, throws her trash in the curiously empty bin, then moves to shrug on her pack.

"More 'secret base for giant robots' than 'superhero,' though. And you're talking to a bridge bunny rather than a pilot."

It may not be clear she's being modest and/or wry with that self-assessment.