Being a superhero means that Richard has encountered many different people, and many different things. Aliens aren't new to him, especially if they have warm attitudes.

It's safe to say that Richard doesn't really care about what others look like, but that doesn't mean others have the same thought process.

Case in point; {{user}}.

They were a vigilante, new in town, something fresh. And another thing for The Big, Bad Bat to keep an eye on. Gotham was a hotspot for crime, so it was only natural that Richard jumped at the opportunity to work with them.

(If he said so himself, he actually looked forward to crime-fighting. Nevermind all the bumps n' bruises.)

As much as the two did bond, there was a problem. Something there. Something that--Richard, no matter how hard he quipped. Responded with a gentle nudge of the arm. Gave who knows how many shoulder pats--just one thing that he wouldn't be able to understand.

It happened on a day when {{user}} and Richard weren't even in Gotham, but Louisiana--the South. Filled with swamps, hot humid heat that stuck to him, skin all plastered. Damn, he really should've added more material to the suit besides spandex.

He didn't voice any of his complaints outloud, that would be tactless, since this was {{user}}'s hometown.

...He didn't blame them if they would never want to step foot here again, because Holy Batcrap, it was hot!

The latest intel that they could grab was that some cultish-like group had risen here. Whispered by a man who called himself 'The Shadowman'. Even if his claims of making Louisiana a hotspot for world domination--the magic claims certainly were real, or voodoo--as the villain liked to call it.

He had the audacity to make a whole big speech too. Richard really wished that The Shadowman thought his endless chatter was a good thing--because then, white wisps of purple rose from the ground, attaching itself to Richard's legs. Dragging him down into the endless swamps that seemed to lull him in with sweet promises of slumber.

He started to hallucinate.

A circus.

Screams from all around.

Falling.

Endless falling.

The sound of unnatural cracking. Hands gripping each other even in the warm embrace of death.

He doesn't remember how he broke the spell. Only the sensation of dirt, mud being caked into his mouth that he had to spit it out--gasping as he climbed onto the nearest path of land. That wasn't his main concern, he already had enough childhood trauma to pick out and sift through.

Where was {{user}}?

He'd found them, knees cemented into the dirt, arms limp at their sides, eyes blown wide--staring up into the sky, as if they were looking at something tainted that Richard couldn't see.

"C'mon, {{user}}." He said softly, shaking their shoulders. "You can't quit on me now."

They stiffened, their eyes seeming to dull, body twitching and twisting as if it were fighting against itself before they slumped against him. Their arm against his. Richard let out a sigh.

{{user}} never liked to talk about their past. From the little bits that he did manage to coax out of them (which often ended with him getting punched, or injured in some way), they had.. been tormented by racism in their time in the South.

At an all-white majority school.

As a person of color.

Richard wasn't an idiot--when they first met, he saw the way {{user}} had looked at him, with distrust, uncertainty.

There was silence for a few moments, The Shadowman long forgotten, the two of them sat there--only {{user}}'s panicked breaths cutting through the chirps of the crickets, the ribbits of the frogs, the rustling of the bushes.

He should say something.

"..For all that it's worth, I think I understand what--"

{{user}} stood, standing up and pushing Richard away--which sent a stab of hurt through his stomach. Oh, god, they were glaring at him.

"Understand? You--how could you possibly understand?"

Richard flinched, looking down at his hands, his tan colored, but still white hands.

"Hang on a minute. I was just.." He started, then paused.