And now, my latest attempt to paste in an excerpt from the third chapter of long-defunct prose experiment I Am Empowered, a Year-One-ish first-person account from Emp in 140-character Twitter format detailing her earliest days as a superheroine; note that this chapter is an especially long one exploring the art and science of superheroic roofjumping, with these current excerpts depicting at some length one of Emp’s more disastrous efforts along those lines.

ABOMINABLEMENT DIFFICILE (part 6)

“Okay, sure, my superpowers are gone,” I admit, a little shakily. “But, hey, guess what I’m still good at—what I’m notorious for, in fact?”

Silence ensues as Trigger Troll’s armored headpiece and Quasarmodo’s lumpy, pieced-together head stare at me blankly.

I sigh, jerk a thumb towards Hipster Chick. “Ditch Skinny Jeans over there. If you need a captive audience, I’m overqualified for the job.”

Are these drunken idiots still not following me? I put my wrists together, extend my symbolically bound hands forward, gesturing emphatically.

“Jeez, guys,” I huff, shaking my head. “I’m saying, take me captive, instead of her.” Behind her hipster frames, Skinny Jeans’ eyes widen.

I glance over at her, our eyes lock—okay, her eyes behind glasses, mine behind supersuit lenses—and we share a Savvy City Girl Moment. 

We both know that being in the company of very strong, very stupid, VERY drunk guys is not always an ideal place for a girl to be.

In theory, the Unwritten Rules of cape culture protect me more than her, but surrendering to boozing bads like this pushes theory’s limits.

Striving to shrug off the encroaching tide of anxiety rapidly undermining my sandcastle of (Semi-)Heroic Resolve, I renew my beseechery. 

“I get captured a lot, so this is no biggie,” I insist. “Besides, you get more bad-guy cred from grabbing a superchica than some civilian.”

Again, I thrust my wrists out at one supervill, then the other. “Make up your minds, huh? This is incredibly degrading for me, understand?”

That’s no lie, either, as my skin is crawling with the sheer humiliation of having to offer myself up for captivity—a new low, even for me.

I glare pointedly at Troll, then Quasarmodo. The vills trade—I think—Meaningful Looks. Skinny Jeans Hipster Chick stares at all three of us.

Silence for a three-count, interrupted by the faint clicks and faux shutter noises of camera phones buzzing from either side of the street.

As always, a hardy few civilians are venturing out of the smoke- and debris-choked periphery, phones upraised to capture stills and video.

Good to know that my nadir as a superheroine—okay, my NEWEST nadir as a superheroine, it would seem—is being duly recorded for posterity.

Quasarmodo releases Skinny Jeans’ bruised arm. She darts past me, trailing a fervent, muttered chain of thank-yous, and she’s gone—and safe.

Then the Hulking Hunchback—no joke, that’s his official secondary supranym—reaches out to grab my wrists, but I step back out of his reach.

Speaker-blare from Troll, growl from Quasarmodo. “You’ve got me, but on one condition,” I singsong, back-and-forth-ing an index finger.

“I need you fellas to move this party off the streets”—I’m pointing high upwards, now—“and up to rooftop level, where the big boys play.”

I smirk, with as much insolence as my weak knees and butterflied stomach allow me to fake. “Or are you big badasses SCARED of a little R2R?”

Gesturing breezily, now. “Personally, I’m pretty fond of rooftopping, but I can understand if you guys might be a little freaked out by it.”

Moment of silence #3. The vills once again trade, I think, Meaningful Looks. “What’ll it be, boys?” I ask, oh-so-innocently.

Smash cut to me 30 stories up, bound tightly with spare Trigger Troll wiring cables, slung helplessly over a leaping Quasarmodo’s shoulder—

—and we’re in midjump, the rooftop wind howling in my ears and clawing at my exposed skin, the sunset skyline swaying and blurring crazily—

—and I’m freefalling, anchored only by a meaty paw across my bare thighs, the rest of my body floating weightless in the churning airblast—

—and we narrowly miss Troll headed the other way, flashing past us in midair with a flare of jump jets and a roar of speaker-blare laughter—

—and I’m gazing down in vertiginous horror at the streets yawning far below, until the wind-whipped shroud of my hair thankfully blinds me—

—and we land heavily, unsteadily in a crunch of rooftop gravel, slamming me gut-punch hard against his shoulder, gasping and breathless— 

—and five wobbly, tottering strides follow, then we launch out into the void again, the hunchback cackling as I shriek in wordless terror.

Never been glad for a baddie’s firm grip on my thighs before, but I’ve also never been “shoulder candy” for such an inept roofjumper before.

Quasarmodo’s strong enough for R2R, but his technique is appalling, freely violating every precept of my hard-won rooftopping experience. 

His limping approach runs are way too slow, his brute-strength takeoff points much too soon, his rooftop landing choices far too random.

Repeatedly, I’ve had to backseat-drive his wildly doofus-y rooftopping, often shrieking, “Stop! STOP!” or, “Not that way! NOT THAT WAY!”

Not helping Q-Modo’s R2R: The fact that the soused goofball is countless Plutonium Blonde SuperHard Lemonades® into a daylong bender.

Amazingly, we haven’t yet missed a roofjump and death-plunged, but not for a lack of booze-breathed effort on the Hammered Hunchback’s part.

Okay, he might survive a 30-story fall—barely—but with my supersuit already ruined, I certainly wouldn’t. So, yeahp, I’m utterly terrified.

At least six bloodcurdly times so far, I’ve almost bounced right out of Quasarmodo’s grasp, off his shoulder, and out into the howling void.

The last time, I just barely managed to hook my bound wrists around his muscle-bloated neck in mid-bounce, before I could fall free of him.

Drunken idiot that he is, Quasarmodo just laughs at my screeches and yelps and cries. “You’re a riot, y’know that?” he slurs, chuckling.

“Really glad we didn’t gag you,” he adds, effortlessly slinging me back over his shoulder and giving my upturned bottom a too-friendly slap.

I shriek colorful and anatomically unlikely obscenities at him, he chortles indulgently, then we’re launching skyward on another superjump.

Early on, I was playing up the Distressed Damsel act a little, to help set up my Cunning Plan—but now, I am Puh-lenty Distressed, For Reals.

Roofjumping without my superpowers has—go figure—completely shattered my nerves. I haven’t wet myself yet, but the evening is young.

<END OF EXCERPT>

Wellp, if this actually worked, webcomic readers, I’ll try again shortly with another excerpt from I Am Empowered, continuing this very long and action-packed chapter about superheroic rooftop shenanigans.

Today’s Patreon update: Originally done as a means of scratching out more worktime to complete the long-gestating Empowered vol. 12, I've switched over to a Monday/ Wednesday/ Friday Patreon posting schedule that won't feature the fixed content format I previously used. However, my vast archive of years of Patreon posts—extensive Empowered previews, vintage con sketches, work stages on covers, "damsel in distress" commissions, life drawings & much, much more—remains available for Patrons' perusal.

-Adam Warren