[ WP ] You are a superhero with dissociative identity disorder . Each personality you have has different powers .

Shieldmaiden lay battered and broken on the ground, and Striker stood in defiant despair as Wrath strode closer. 
 
 `` What are you going to do, pretty boy?'' the villain taunted. `` Your girlfriend's protective barrier could n't stand up to me, and neither will you.'' 
 
 With a roar, Striker charged, accelerating faster than humanly possible until his fist connected with Wrath's head, crushing through bone like wallpaper. He even felt the villain's pulpy brains and blood spray out as momentum carried his fist out and through. A short moment later, he felt Wrath's hands tightening around his throat. 
 
 `` Now now,'' Wrath's voice slurred as his head reconstructed itself, mouth forming in a ready-made leer. `` Just because you've never *seen* anyone destroy my head does n't mean it's actually a weak point. Striker vibrated and flailed, choking out an enraged scream, but Wrath's strong grip gradually choked the air out of him, and he grew weaker and weaker until he did n't move at all anymore. 
 
 For a moment, all was quiet. `` Hm,'' Wrath snorted. `` I suppose I'll take the two of you alive. Toxin did mention something about wanting test subjects.'' He threw Striker over his shoulder and turned towards Shieldmaiden. She was gone. 
 
 His eyes had a moment to widen in confusion before he felt fingers tighten around his heart – *'' What the* – and then crush it. 
 
 He screamed, blood pouring from his mouth as he dropped Striker. `` As if that will stop me!'' Already his heart reformed, muscles knitting themselves back together – his left lung was crushed and torn, and Wrath fell to his knees. His lips moved soundlessly as he felt the rising panic of suffocation. *Where are you, who are you, show yourself! *. 
 
 No one did. The process continued for hours, veins being ripped and pulled, his body maimed over and over again inside and out. Eyes gouged, sharp fingernails raked down the inside of his throat, a variety of rips and pokes to his brain, subtle enough to keep the pain going but to tamper with the integrity of his thoughts and emotions. Wrath lost track of time, then lost track of where his body parts were, then lost track of himself. When Striker came to, Wrath was fully healed, curled into a ball on the floor, rocking himself back and forth slowly. Shieldmaiden was nowhere to be found. The dazed and bewhildered Striker threw Wrath over his shoulder and carried him away, heading towards the Citadel. 
 
 As they left the building, something in the shadows coalesced, and the darkness spoke with a woman's voice. `` My turn,'' said the Night.
