Her ability to see the future can be quite specific.  If she did much fighting, it would allow her to account for and dodge almost any attack.  Her "sight" of the future does not generally come in the form of traditional visions.  She will sometimes have symbolic dreams leading up to a large realization, but quite often she simply "knows" what is going to happen.  It has been suggested that this ability is a logical mutant extension of the genetic abnormalities that lead to her obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Much lay ahead.  The half hour was divided into an incredibly complex pattern of separate configurations.  He had reached a critical region; he was about to move through worlds of intricate complexity.

 He concentrated on a scene ten minutes away.  It showed, like a three-dimensional still, a heavy gun at the end of the corridor, trained all the way to the far end.  Men moved cautiously from door to door, checking each room again, as they had done repeatedly.  At the end of the half hour they had reached the supply closet.  A scene showed them looking inside.  By that time he was gone, of course.  He wasn't in that scene.  He had passed on to another.

 The next scene showed an exit.  Guards stood in a solid line.  No way out.  He was in that scene.  Off to one side, in a niche just inside the door.  The street outside was visible, stars, lights, outlines of passing cars and people.

 In the next tableau he had gone back, away from the exit.  There was no way out.  In another tableau he saw himself at other exits, a legion of golden figures, duplicated again and again, as he explored regions ahead, one after another.  But each exit was covered.

 In one dim scene he saw himself lying charred and dead; he had tried to run through the line, out the exit.

 But that scene was vague.  One wavering, indistinct still out of many.  The inflexible path along which he moved would not deviate in that direction.  It would not turn him that way.  The golden figure in that scene, the miniature doll in that room, was only distantly related to him.  It was himself, but a far-away self.  A self he would never meet.  He forgot it and went on to examine the other tableau. 

The myriad of tableaux that surrounded him were an elaborate maze, a web which he now considered bit by bit.  He was looking down into a doll's house of infinite rooms, rooms without number, each with its furniture, its dolls, all rigid and unmoving.  The same dolls and furniture were repeated in many.  He, himself, appeared often.  The two men on the platform.  The woman.  Again and again the same combinations turned up; the play was redone frequently, the same actors and props moved around in all possible ways.

 Before it was time to leave the supply closet, Cris Johnson had examined each of the rooms tangent to the one he now occupied.  He knew exactly where he was going.  And what he had to do.  Crouched in the stuffy closet, he had quietly and expertly examined each miniature of himself, observed which clearly-etched configuration lay along his inflexible path, the one room of the doll house, the one set out of legions, toward which he was moving.

-Philip K. Dick, "The Golden Man"