The terrorists didn't physically harm him after Tony Stark refused to build the advanced suit of armor they demanded. They simply left, knowing that their tactics weren't working—for now.
"They've been speaking another language these past few days," Zod noted, addressing his beast soldiers. "Tony Stark has learned Arabic just by listening to the conversations between Yin Sen and the others."
"What?" One of the beast soldiers exclaimed in disbelief. "Is he some kind of freak?"
Zod was equally surprised but impressed. When observing Tony during conversations between Yin Sen and the terrorists, he noticed that Stark no longer had the same confused expression from earlier. Instead, he seemed focused, and after probing his thoughts, Zod realized Tony had indeed learned most of the Arabic being spoken.
It was shocking, but not entirely unexpected. After all, this was Tony Stark—the genius inventor.
Realizing this, Zod decided to switch things up. Soon after, Tony noticed the terrorists had switched to a new language.
"Hansen," Tony asked, his brow furrowed, "what language are they speaking now?"
Hansen, still pretending to be unsure, responded, "It sounds like Hebrew—the main language spoken in Israel."
Inside, Hansen was floored. How had Stark managed to pick up Arabic in such a short time? It hadn't even been that long since they arrived. But then again, this was Tony Stark. The man was a walking brain.
Staring at Tony, Hansen thought, If this continues, we're going to have to switch languages every few days!
Zod, however, remained calm. "Let's see how far we can go. If he gets through the Middle Eastern languages, I'll have them start speaking something truly obscure. Maybe we'll go with dialects from the East, like the devilish Xiuzhou or the Hunan dialect. If Tony Stark picks those up too… well, then we'll just keep challenging him."
But before Tony could learn more, the terrorists tried a different tactic. They stopped feeding him.
Tony had seen this play before. The same thing had happened in his previous captivity. Back then, Tony had initially held out, demanding red wine, steak, and cheeseburgers instead of the bland, tasteless meals his captors provided. In response, the terrorists stopped feeding him altogether. By the fourth day, a starving Tony had licked his plate cleaner than a dog would, reduced to eating whatever they gave him just to survive.
The taste of hunger was cruel. No matter how strong someone's willpower was, starvation had a way of breaking even the strongest of men. Eventually, the hunger would push a person to eat anything, even dirt or cotton, just to fill the gnawing emptiness in their stomach.
Zod found this method much more effective than torture. He knew that if Tony were beaten, his frail human body wouldn't be able to withstand it. Hunger, on the other hand, had a better psychological effect—and Zod knew it.
A few days of missed meals wouldn't kill Tony, Zod mused. If anything, it might help him detoxify his system, shed some weight, and avoid future health problems like fatty liver, high blood pressure, or even cardiovascular diseases.
Stark's diet had long been filled with rich, high-calorie food, washed down with copious amounts of alcohol. A short period of hunger might even be good for his body, Zod reasoned.
Tony had thought he could last longer this time, but hunger was a powerful adversary. He had no training in how to endure starvation, and by the second day, he was already seeing spots. His stomach twisted painfully, and anything remotely edible seemed irresistible.
By the third day, Tony Stark surrendered, knowing he had no other choice.
Zod, pleased with the results, ordered his men to feed Tony a high-fiber meal, ensuring his system was cleaned out. Zod watched as Stark devoured the food with an almost maniacal intensity. The man hadn't eaten properly in days, and now his long-standing issue with constipation had resolved itself—something that amused Zod greatly.
Having set things in motion, Zod shifted his focus from Tony. The Black Queen, his AI, monitored Stark 24/7, and if anything went wrong, Zod would be alerted immediately.
Meanwhile, Zod had other matters to attend to. Under his orders, Bronsky had successfully returned to Great Britain. There, he awaited the day when General Ross would find him. It was a long-term mission, but Bronsky had no choice but to stay patient and await further instructions.
Zod wasn't worried about the Hulk—he had plans in place. If he couldn't acquire the Hulk serum directly, he would do so through more indirect means. After all, not even someone as powerful as the Ancient One could stop him from obtaining what he wanted forever.
But Zod's attention had recently been drawn to New York City. People from Hell's Kitchen had been mysteriously disappearing—gangsters involved in the drug trade, to be specific. Normally, this wouldn't have raised any red flags, as deaths in Hell's Kitchen were common. However, the Black Queen had detected a pattern, along with surveillance footage showing a shadowy figure involved in the disappearances.
"The Reaper?" Zod thought aloud. He knew there were numerous monsters lurking in Hell's Kitchen—beasts like the Hand, enemies of the Punisher, and other notorious criminals. However, based on the timeline and circumstances, Zod concluded that the creature responsible was likely a blood-thirsty alien or mutant.
The Reaper, Zod reasoned, would be an interesting specimen to investigate. Its R-virus mutation could prove invaluable for his research.
In the shadowy, abandoned subway tunnels of Hell's Kitchen, groups of homeless people wandered aimlessly. These forgotten individuals had no other refuge, and the derelict tunnels beneath New York's glamorous surface had become their only shelter.
Among the homeless, a small group of well-dressed individuals moved through the crowd, inspecting some of the vagrants and leading them deeper into the tunnel. Every so often, one of the homeless would emerge from the depths, looking pale and gaunt but clutching a wad of cash. They grinned with toothy smiles, revealing gaps where teeth once were.
"First time selling blood, huh?" A thin, haggard-looking tramp slapped the back of a tall man wearing a tattered trench coat and hood. The tall man, seated nearby, slowly turned his head.
His face, ghostly pale and devoid of hair, was unnerving. There was no beard, no eyebrows—nothing. His eyes were an eerie shade of blue-gray, and a long, thin scar ran across his chin, indicating he had undergone some kind of surgery.
This wasn't just any ordinary man.