The sun shone brightly over the Okanagan Valley, casting a golden hue across the rolling hills and crystal-clear lakes that dotted the landscape. It was another perfect summer day in British Columbia, but for many of the locals, the talk of the town wasn’t the weather—it was the news that one of Canada’s most prestigious superhero teams, North Force, had inducted a new member.
This was particularly exciting for the residents of the Okanagan Valley, as the new heroine was a homegrown talent. Roxanne "Roxy" Rhodes was a name they all knew, a familiar face with a story that had become the subject of much conversation. She had never hidden who she was or where she came from, and now, as a newly minted national hero, she was embarking on a tour of British Columbia, starting with her hometown of Kelowna and continuing today in Vernon.
Outside the entrance to Polson Park, a gathering of protesters stood firm, their faces etched with a mix of determination and disapproval. Polson Park, with its lush greenery, flower gardens, and shaded walkways, was a tranquil oasis in the heart of Vernon. The park’s iconic bandstand stood proudly near the center, surrounded by colorful flower beds and families enjoying the day. The gentle hum of conversation and laughter was interrupted by the chants of the protesters near the park's entrance.
A diverse group, the protesters were a mix of older adults, families, and younger individuals, many holding up signs that ranged from bold declarations to more pointed, critical slogans. The crowd was primarily composed of churchgoers, local conservative groups, and families who had come out to voice their opinions about the newest member of North Force.
Some of the signs were straightforward: "Heroes, Not Whores," "Canada Deserves Better," and "Role Models Before Eye Candy!" Others were more elaborate, referencing Biblical verses or moral statements like "Proverbs 31:10 – A Virtuous Woman Who Can Find?" and "Our Heroes Reflect Our Values." One sign in particular, held by a middle-aged woman in a simple floral dress, read, "1 Corinthians 6:19 – Honor Your Body, Honor Our Nation." Another, painted in bright red letters, proclaimed, "Ephesians 5:3 – No Hint of Sexual Immorality."
A small group of protesters sang hymns softly, their voices rising in a plaintive harmony, while others shouted their slogans with fervor. A man in his late forties, wearing a baseball cap and a worn-out leather jacket, held a megaphone and spoke with urgency. "We need real heroes, not the glorification of sinful lifestyles! Our children deserve better!" His voice, though loud, was not angry—more imploring, as if trying to reach the hearts of those who would listen.
Yet, amid the crowd, there was no sign of hatred or malice. Their faces showed concern, worry, a genuine belief that they were standing up for something important. For many, it wasn't personal—it was about upholding what they saw as traditional values, about ensuring that heroes represented the ideals they taught their children.
Roxy Rhodes stood across from the protesters in the park, her arms crossed, a contemplative look on her face as she watched them from a distance. Today, she had opted for her street clothes—a pair of acid-washed blue jean shorts, a simple crop top that struggled just a little with her robust figure, and comfortable walking shoes. The Okanagan sun beat down with an almost oppressive heat, and she had decided against wearing her superhero costume. Instead, she adjusted the aviator shades resting on her nose and ran a hand through her thick blonde hair, feeling the slight tangle from the humidity.
She wondered if any of them recognized her. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips at the thought. It would be pretty hypocritical if they did, given the kinds of side jobs she had done over the years. A naughty little devil version of herself, clad in a hot red bikini, appeared on her shoulder with a giggle, whispering in her ear. "I bet a few of those boys—and maybe even a few girls—protesting you have seen your work! Maybe you should see if any recognize you!"
On the other shoulder, a more demure but equally scantily clad angel version of herself appeared, her expression soft but resolute. “They’re allowed to have their own opinions, Roxy. Don’t be mean,” she sighed.
Roxy chuckled to herself, feeling the familiar tug-of-war between her playful instincts and her more reasonable side. She knew she was a polarizing figure; that had never bothered her much before. But here, now, watching the people waving their signs, she felt a mix of emotions—amusement, frustration, and something else she couldn't quite pin down. Was it hurt? Annoyance? Maybe both
She leaned back against a nearby tree, observing the crowd as they continued to chant and wave their signs. She had to admit, it stung a little. If she were the more fiery type, she might have called them all a bunch of prudes who should be spending their weekend enjoying the sun instead of whining about someone else's life choices. But that wasn't her. Roxy believed strongly in personal rights and freedoms, and she wasn't about to step on theirs, even if their opinions felt like stones being tossed in her direction. That just wasn’t her style.
A few of the protesters glanced her way, but none seemed to recognize her just yet. That was fine. She wasn’t in any hurry to stir the pot. Still, she couldn't help but wonder—if they did recognize her once she stepped forward, would they continue to see her only as a symbol of something they opposed, or might they see her as a person, as Roxy Rhodes, just trying to do the best she could?
She had to admit to herself that these protesters weren’t the first, nor would they be the last, to see her as something less than a person. It was just the other side of the same coin—the un-personing that people in her line of work always faced.
She had always had powers, but that wasn't how she had paid her way through cosmetology school, nor was it how she had first found an outlet for her love of exhibition. No, she had been a stripper, an adult model, and had even starred in a few adult movies as soon as she was legally able. She had always been open about that part of her life, and in some ways, she preferred this kind of protest—the one that attacked her for who she was, for her choices and lifestyle—over the other kind, the ones who saw her as nothing more than an object, alive for one thing and one thing only. Those people, just like the ones protesting now, didn’t see her as a person; they only saw the role she played for the media.
Roxy shook her head slightly, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. She wasn't ashamed of her past—she had always owned it, every bit of it—but it did get tiring to have to justify herself to people who had already decided what she was worth. She wasn’t just one thing, and she didn’t fit neatly into any box people tried to shove her into. She never would.
Roxy had always found sexuality to be a topic she couldn't escape, whether from her own fascination with it or from others' relentless interest in her. Puberty had hit her early, and Mother Nature had decided to bless—or curse—her with the kind of body they used to paint on bomber planes. As her stage name, "Miss Rocky Mountains," suggested, she had a set of peaks to rival the ones that sheltered the Okanagan Valley she called home. She'd long grown accustomed to the stares, the whispered accusations of being a "dumb blonde bimbo," the unwanted advances from men who only wanted one thing, and the scorn of other women envious of something she had absolutely no control over.
That was why, in the end, she had decided to embrace it, to have fun with it—because she was sick and tired of feeling like the only one who wasn’t getting anything out of it. And that's how she discovered she liked to show off. There was a thrill in it, a cheeky delight in watching people's jaws drop or knowing that she made them think racy thoughts. It was fun, and she was sure people had fun with it too.
There was something exhilarating about that little race of the heart, the flush of warmth from a flirtatious word or a playful gesture. Roxy wasn’t a sensitive psychic by any stretch, but sometimes she could feel the vibrations through the ground—like subtle echoes of people’s reactions to her presence. When she made her fans’ hearts skip a beat or caused a grin to spread across their faces, it genuinely made her smile. Why shouldn’t it? Life was meant to be enjoyed, and if she could bring a little extra excitement into it, why not?
She had always believed that there was nothing wrong with enjoying the body she’d been given or letting others enjoy it, too. It was hers, after all, and she would be damned if anyone made her feel like she had to apologize for it.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
She had always tried to stress that everyone was beautiful in their own way. It was a message she believed in deeply, even if some of her detractors called her a hypocrite because of her looks. They couldn’t see past her appearance, assuming she was just another pretty face spouting platitudes. But for Roxy, it was genuinely true. As a pansexual, it was central to how she saw the world. Beauty wasn’t just skin deep—it was a spectrum, a myriad of shapes, colors, and forms, and she reveled in it.
Sure, she didn’t find everyone attractive, but that was okay—she never expected to. She always emphasized that beauty was in the eye of the beholder and that everyone had a right to their own tastes. To her, it was less about who fit a certain mold and more about the unique spark in everyone, that something special that made them who they were. She knew that everyone was beautiful to the right person, and that person would be the only one who mattered in the end.
Roxy had seen all kinds of beauty in her life, and she refused to let anyone dictate what was or wasn’t valid. If she could help just one person see that they were worth loving, worth admiring, then she’d consider her work worthwhile—whether that person was in her audience, in a crowd like this, or even staring back at her in the mirror.
She slowly pushed off the tree she had been leaning on, feeling the rough bark against her skin. She liked trees—plants in general, really. They were steady, alive, always growing, rooted in the earth yet reaching for the sky. It made her wish she was one of those, what do you call them? Kinetic psychic types who are connected to plants? The name was on the tip of her tongue, but it wasn’t coming to her.
“Plant-somethings... Florakinetics? No, that wasn’t it...”
She sighed. This was going to lodge at the back of her mind now, she just knew it. One of those thoughts that would nag at her until it finally popped back up hours later, probably in the middle of a fight or while she was trying to concentrate on something important.
Still, she smiled a little at the thought. Being a plant-kinetic would’ve been neat—maybe quieter work, more serene. She could imagine herself coaxing flowers to bloom, helping trees grow, bringing a little more green into the world. But no, she was stuck with earth and stone, making the ground shake and rock walls rise. And that was fine by her. She’d make the most of what she had.
She popped some bubble gum into her mouth and began to walk toward the protesters, taking her time with each step. She felt their eyes on her, and ever one to enjoy herself, she naturally slipped into that kind of walk that was hard not to stare at—a lazy, confident saunter that made every movement deliberate, fluid. She blew a bright pink bubble until it popped with a soft snap, then slowly chewed the gum with a playful smirk. She was always "on," and that was by choice. There was a little thrill in knowing she had a knack for making people's toes curl, a way of capturing attention that was almost like a second superpower.
But her real knack—the reason North Force had recruited her—was her geokinesis, the power she’d been born with. It was the ability that had first landed her in the national news when she had caught a killer preying on sex workers along a lonely stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway cutting through British Columbia.
The government classified her as an A-tier Kinetic Psion. Earth and stone just did what she wanted; she was connected to them in ways that felt as intrinsic as breathing. She could manipulate raw earth, rock, and unprocessed ores with ease—make them rise, shift, bend to her will as if they were extensions of her own body. Concrete, metal, and certain earth-based elements too, but those were harder, always more stubborn, like they resisted her touch. They required more concentration, more practice to control, but she was getting better with every battle, every challenge.
For now, though, she was content to let the ground beneath her remain still as she approached the crowd. She wanted to see the whites of their eyes, feel the tremor in their voices, and maybe—just maybe—change a few minds.
She was hardly religious in any strict, conservative way, but she formed the stone in her hand into a small cross, kneeling down to set it on a bench where several bored kids of the protesters were seated. That, she noted with a smile, was the greatest sin of this whole protest—boring these poor kids out of their skulls. Wasting a perfectly good, hot weekend day that would be better spent at the beach was a close second.
Roxy loved the beach. She loved swimming, too. There was something almost liberating about being in deep water. Growing up, she had always felt the earth beneath her feet, sensed the things hidden within it, but when she swam, it was like turning off all that extra sensory input. It let her just be, to float and relax in a way that was impossible on land.
“Plus, let's face it,” chimed in the devil on her shoulder with a mischievous grin, “no one fills out a bikini like we do, babe!”
Roxy chuckled under her breath, biting back a laugh as she rose to her feet, brushing a bit of dirt from her hands. She gave the kids a quick wink, making one of them giggle and the others look away shyly. She loved the feeling of lightness she got from moments like this—small acts of rebellion wrapped in kindness, like a little spark to keep things interesting.
She glanced back at the crowd, still chanting and waving their signs. She knew they wouldn't see the humor in any of this, but that was fine. She didn’t need them to. All she needed was to keep being herself, no matter who tried to shame her for it.
And that was exactly what she intended to do.
She observed the protesters, her eyes flicking over the various signs and faces. The angel on her shoulder gave a small, sympathetic pout. “I understand conservative style is a thing, but some of those poor dears must be melting today,” she murmured.
Roxy had to agree with her sexy little shoulder angel. She noted a few of the especially prudish-looking members of the crowd, dressed in long sleeves, high collars, and heavy fabrics that seemed better suited for a winter sermon than a blistering summer day. Their faces glistened with sweat, and more than a few were fanning themselves desperately with pamphlets and signs.
It was not a good day to be scared to show skin.
She smiled to herself, biting her lip to keep from laughing. She almost felt bad for them. It was the kind of heat that made you want to strip down to the bare minimum and jump into the nearest body of water. But here they were, determined to make their point, even if it meant sweltering in the sun. She admired their tenacity, at least. If they could handle a little heat today, maybe they'd survive the fire of her glare just fine.
Still, she couldn't help but think they were missing out. A day like this was meant for sundresses, shorts, and swimsuits, not layers upon layers. The angel on her shoulder sighed, shaking her head. “Bless their hearts,” she whispered.
Roxy stifled another chuckle. "Yeah, bless ‘em," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "They're gonna need it."
The saucy little devil on her other shoulder leaned in, whispering something in her ear, and Roxy's smirk grew a little wider. She scanned the street until she spotted what she was looking for, then ducked around behind the protesters and made her way across to the other side. Her angel giggled quietly; it seemed that, for once, she and the devil both liked this idea.
A few moments later, a young man pedaled up on a bicycle cart, the kind with a small icebox attached, decorated with pictures of colorful ice cream treats. He rang the bell on his handlebars, and the sound caused a few of the kids among the protesters to perk up instantly.
“Free ice cream! One per customer!” he called out cheerfully.
One of the adults, an older woman with a tight bun and a suspicious frown, stepped forward and asked, “Why?”
The young man shrugged with a grin. “Oh, the blonde lady over by the streetlamp bought all my stock and told me to come offer you folks some. Said it looked awfully warm over here.”
A few heads turned in the direction he pointed, and there they saw Roxy, standing by the streetlamp, sucking on a bright red, white, and blue rocket pop—entirely too suggestively for some of their tastes. Her lips curled into a mischievous grin as she caught a few disapproving looks, but she just winked in response, letting the ice pop linger just a little too long before taking another playful lick.
Some of the kids didn’t seem to mind at all, rushing forward eagerly to get their hands on a free treat, while a few of the adults hesitated, uncertain whether to be offended or grateful for the unexpected gesture.
Roxy continued to enjoy her popsicle, savoring every reaction, knowing she had managed to do the impossible: bring a bit of relief to a tense situation, even if it was just a few moments of sweet, icy distraction.
After all, she didn't hate them. She didn't hate anyone, deep down. All she wanted was to live and let live, to help people who were having a rough time or who found themselves in danger. That was the Roxy Rhodes she wished people could see: the playful sex bomb who just wanted to make the world lighten up, loosen its proverbial tie, and have a little more fun.
She didn't mind being seen as bold or provocative—she actually enjoyed it most days. But she wanted people to know that it wasn’t all about the headlines or the controversies. She wanted them to see past the looks and the reputation, to realize that behind the bright lipstick, the swagger, and the skimpy clothes, she was just someone trying to make a difference in her own way.
She flashed a smile at a little girl who was licking her ice cream, her face sticky and delighted, and felt a flutter of warmth in her chest. Moments like this—where she could bring a bit of joy, even to those who might not approve of her—were what made it all worth it.
“Yeah,” she thought to herself, “this is who I am. And I won't change it for the world.”
