Doctor Doom will pose a threat to the whole Marvel multiverse in Avengers: Doomsday, requiring heroes from multiple worlds to team up to stop him. If you’re eagerly awaiting the confrontation, a new book offers a taste of what’s in store.
Random House has been releasing books inspired by Marvel’s What If…? line since 2024, with stories including Loki banished to Earth and Kitty Pryde absorbing the Phoenix Force. DaVaun Sanders’ What If… The Multiverse Was Doomed? serves as the series finale, with Doctor Doom tearing through the multiverse searching for Franklin Richards so he can use his power to reshape reality. America Chavez has to travel between dimensions to assemble a team including Loki, Scarlet Witch, Kitty Pryde, and a version of Moon Knight hosting Venom who can protect Franklin and stop Doom’s conquest. While the cast may be different, it sounds a lot like the plot of Doomsday.
"We can all acknowledge a handpicked team of superheroes has an above-average chance to get washed by Doctor Doom, expeditiously,” Sanders told Polygon in an email. “This is part of why I love America Chavez and her role in this story so deeply. For a character who has received plenty of flak (and more than her fair share of vitriol if we’re being real about it), this story presented a unique challenge to show her answering the call that others flinched away from as the story unfolds."
Before What If… The Multiverse Was Doomed? hits bookstores and other outlets on Aug. 4, Random House Worlds gave Polygon an exclusive excerpt to share. Set a decade after Thor’s death, it follows a version of Loki who has proven himself worthy of wielding Mjölnir and is helping Jane Foster raise his niece, Quinn. But Loki is still plagued with doubt and guilt, and parenting a rebellious child eager to be a hero is proving very difficult.
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“I’m old enough to go on my own. I’m ready,” Quinn reasons with the impeccable logic of youth. “But I need a name, something hopeful but just a little scary…”
He affirms in all of the right places. She is ready, Loki admits, but something holds him back, a sense of foreboding that entreats Loki to linger. Her temper inclines toward brooding of late, far more often than he deems natural. Quinn has always been mischievous, but a sullen quality obscures her playfulness, the whimsy he treasures so deeply.
Growing within her, Loki doesn’t see his brother so clearly any longer. He sees a trickster. He sees himself.
Recognizing her mother’s recalcitrance in addition to his own misgivings, Loki has burdened himself with developing a suitable compromise, a… playground of sorts within the city. The overly ambitious Hood and some others were easily recruited to do Loki’s bidding. So easy and tempting to reign over the entirety, but a cordoned-off zone where his niece may save wayward kittens and call down lightning on purse snatchers to her heart’s content will suffice, until she is prepared for more respectable foes and he is convinced she won’t do them permanent harm in the midst of a foul humor. When she grows bored of the kiddie pool (she will) or sees through it (doubtful), Loki’s orchestration extends beyond Midgard, thanks in no small part to the Valkyrie Rūna’s guidance and suggestions. A fine tightrope he walks, keeping Odin sated and Jane appeased. A fine, bloody tightrope indeed.
“My top choice so far is Brave.”
“Just Brave?” Loki inquires. She bobs her head eagerly. “Befitting, although verging on copyright infringement. Balder may consider it an homage, I suppose.”
Already bequeathing herself unearned glory. Hopefully a childish stage, surely nothing more. Loki’s current endeavors must succeed in order to earn Jane Foster’s blessing and escalate Quinn’s training.
And agree she must, for Odin’s patience wears thin. When Quinn’s grandfather first learned of her existence, a hidden heir, a living link to their slain beloved, Loki only staved off outright invasion to steal her away by the thinnest of razor margins. No doubt that Loki’s own mother, Frigga, has steered Odin away from several such inclinations in the years since that unfortunate affair.
Loki turns his mind to Tony Stark, whose grief nearly wrought ruin on Asgard itself. Loki’s triumph against the man, ensconced within his so-called Iron Destroyer, should have been a proper end. Yet new problems flourish instead of the parades and banquets Loki deserves. Another annoyance Loki must contend with once more, and soon.
Sudden knuckles sink into Loki’s short ribs, bringing him back to present concerns with a grunt. Accusation glistens in Quinn’s eyes. “You’re not. Even. Listening.”
“I am, and my answer remains.”
Lightning bristles in her snarl. “I don’t have to do what you say.”
Alarm spikes through Loki’s heart as Mjolnir leaps from the kitchen table.
The haft stops inches from Quinn’s grasp, vibrating in midair as Loki calls it. She’s never challenged him like this before, directly; a battle of wills. Rhapsodic melodies spring from the very metal. Quinn giggles.
Loki grimaces at Mjolnir’s sudden ballad. His beloved brother, in all of his benevolence, couldn’t possibly imagine how Quinn’s undue youthful penchants would influence the weapon, seeping into her birthright. Corrupting it. Another dollop of outrage added to Odin’s overflowing scuttle. Jane worries Mjolnir’s new impulses alone will kindle an invasion.
The hammer inches ever closer to Quinn’s grasp. Mjolnir’s song cut through to his core, a festering doubt wrapped in painful reality. Loki isn’t the hammer’s true master and never will be.
He laughs and abolishes that fretting to the midden. His old essence still bubbles forth, the doubting. Though a decade was an eyeblink to a god, he has lived an eventful decade nonetheless. He is different. “Quinn, this is ridiculous. Release her.”
The hammer hums dangerously.
“Why should I?” Quinn whispers.
Why should we? Mjolnir echoes.
Mjolnir loops between them now, a lemniscate path that draws closer to Quinn’s reach with every pass. She flashes her teeth in triumph. Wind gathers in the condo’s narrow confines, blowing her tresses back. Dishes rattle in the cabinetry. The fridge tremors. Loki returns her smile to hide his gritted teeth, his effort.
The hammer is… restless. Loki’s found no recorded instance of anyone successfully
sharing Mjolnir in this way, despite all of his time wasted scouring the Halls of
All-Knowing for some sight to prevent this very moment. Sudden tension prickles Loki’s
scalp, and a dread portent that pulls his attention upward, sensing hidden threats. He’s
perceived this mystery before, but—
A strange, brilliant flash shatters their staring contest. Shock emerges on Quinn’s face, then naked fear. Loki soon shares it. No kitchen fire sparked by some errant strand of lightning. A thin silver line gleams along Mjolnir’s broadside, etching steadily through the Valknut symbol engraved in the Uru metal.
“Quinn. Stop.” Mjolnir is… fracturing. They did not withstand Stark’s maddened grief only to revisit that folly here, unforced.
“You stop.”
A slamming door cuts through the tumult, then jangling keys and an indignant, tired voice.
“What is going on in here?”
Mjolnir thuds to the floor an instant before Jane Foster appears.
“Nothing,” they both say at once.
Quinn’s mother is smartly dressed in an expensive dark pantsuit and elegant heels. Not her preferred garb, but an unfortunate, necessary reminder of her bona fides for the insufferable churls who waste her prodigious intellect with their inane mouth-breathing. Right now, though, that brilliant gaze holds nothing but suspicion.
“No, not nothing.” Her inspection swivels between them. Despite his exasperation with
Quinn, Loki is proud of her for upholding one deeply held belief they still share. No snitches.
“I heard something, and the elevator went out. And why is Mjolnir on my floor?
The brand-new floor I just had remodeled?”
“Uncle Loki’s showing me his new party trick.” Quinn snatches the hammer up, flashing Loki a smirk of triumph. Relief, too, as they both examine Mjolnir for the wound riven during their squabble. The weapon is whole once more. Quinn, however, appears ready to vault for the clouds, mother’s permission be damned.
Instead, she flips Mjolnir over the kitchen island. He swears under his breath, bobbling to grasp the haft before truly damaging Jane’s coveted ceramic tiles.
Quinn laughs, much as Thor might have done in her stead, save for that gleam in her eye, the trace of wickedness Loki imagines rooting ever more firmly with each of these pointless clashes. She draws close, lifting up on her toes to whisper in Loki’s ear. “You’ll never be him.”
“Do try your best not to slam the bedroom door,” he whispers back.
Quinn gives a most satisfactory squawk—how’s that for predictable—as she sweeps out, ducking away from her mother’s hug and down the hall.
Jane braces herself, but the customary door slam never materializes. Most satisfactory.
“What was that all about?” she asks.
“Just a well-placed dagger,” Loki answers with a shrug. The timing, the casual tone; he would applaud her if only it was slipped between another victim’s ribs.