Lack of Purpose

   The sun set over Metropolis, casting a gentle orange glow across the sky.  Above it all stood Diana, poised and elegant, her toes barely touching the clouds below.
   A gentle whistling in the air told Diana that Clark was floating up to meet her.
   "Hey," he said.
   "Hey."
   "...I tried to find you yesterday.  Your mom didn't know where you were, and you didn't answer your phone."
   She hung her head a little. "...I didn't know what to do."
   She looked at him. "I didn't mean to kill him.  I just... lost control.  I don't know what happened."
   Clark frowned slightly. "You were under a lot of stress. Are you sure it wasn't just because you were in the heat of the moment?"
   She thought about it for a moment.  "...Maybe, but... that's no excuse."
   They sat in silence for a long while, deep in thought.

   "...Clark, what are we doing?"
   "What do you mean?"
   "You remember what I said a while back? About how the chances of people like you, me, and Bart all meeting each other like this are ridiculous?"
   Clark nodded.  "Yeah. You said there must be a reason that we're together."
   "Right.  But... what reason is that?  It's not like we're doing anything important."
   "Hey, we fought Deadshot and beat him.  The police couldn't do that."
   "They couldn't?  Why not?  It's not like they ever really had a chance; we just jumped in every time to stop him.  And I think the last two times, he specifically wanted to get back at me for stopping him at Excelsior."
   "Yeah, I figured that must've been the reason.  But are you saying that we shouldn't be out trying to fight crime?"
   Diana let out an exasperated sigh.  "'Fight crime.' Doesn't it strike you as odd how easily those words escape our lips?  I mean, what normal person even thinks that way?  Do police even think about their jobs that way?  They call themselves 'protectors of the peace' or 'public servants,' not 'crime fighters.'  And you, me, Bart—even Bruce, a little—all used that same phrase.  'Crime fighting.'  Like it's stuck in our brains.  Why do we even have this idea?"
   Clark half-shrugged.  "I noticed it, too.  I figured it was because it's what we're meant to do.  Like a literal calling."
   Diana smirked at his idea.  It struck her as rather quaint.  "Clark... the gods don't give callings out for people like us to fight petty criminals."
   Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes or frown at her.  "I don't take orders from the gods."
   Diana resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him.  "Fine then. Whatever deity you claim to believe. But seriously, think about it. If we have a purpose, it's to do things that everyone else can't. Bank robbers and mercenaries—even people like Deadshot—can usually be handled by the police.  We should be doing something more."
   "So... we should just sit back and let other people get hurt because solving their problems isn't our 'purpose?'"
   "No, of course not... it's just... I can't help feeling like there's something we're missing."