17 out of the goal of 75 comments already from "Tyler and Jones!" O.O What?! :D Keep on commenting, guys, and you'll get the answer to your question! The sooner you do, I'll answer a new question where the last chapter to comment on will be "Last of the Time Lords," and the answer will be in the epilogue.

That question is: "Which Torchwood episode will the Apocalypse cross over into?" The sooner we get to 75 for this question, the sooner I'll stack up comments to answer the Torchwood one!

So, what're you waiting for? Read and comment away!

***

Martha tried to get a better grip on the console as the Apocalypse ran around it. "But how do you travel in time?" she asked over the noise. "What makes it go?"

The Apocalypse rolled her eyes. "Oh, let's take the fun and mystery out of everything," she complained. "Martha, you don't want to know. It just does. Hold on tight!"

Martha did, but the jolt was so large, she fell to the floor. "Blimey!" she gasped. "Do you have to pass a test to fly this thing?"

"Yes," the Apocalypse grinned. "And I failed it! Granted, only by a few points, but still!" Martha stared at her as the Apocalypse grabbed her cardigan. "Now, make the most of it," the Apocalypse told her. "I promised you one trip, and one trip only. Outside this door?" She smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Brave new world."

"Where are we?" Martha asked in excitement.

The Apocalypse kicked the door open with her boot. "Take a look," she smirked. "After you."

Martha stepped outside, and her jaw dropped as she looked around the old town. "Oh, you are kidding me," she gasped as the Apocalypse stepped out after her. "You are so kidding me!" The Apocalypse just grinned. "Oh, my God, we did it! We traveled in time! Where are we?" She shook her head. "No, sorry, I got to get used to this whole new language. When are we?"

The Apocalypse was about to answer when she blinked. "Mind out!" she warned, grabbing her arm and pulling her back as a slop bucket was emptied right where Martha had been standing. "Apparently, somewhere before the invention of the toilet," she sighed. "Sorry about that."

"I've seen worse," Martha shrugged it off. "I've worked the late night shift A and E." The Apocalypse walked forward, but Martha wasn't ready to move just yet. "But are we safe?" The Apocalypse blinked in confusion. "I mean, can we move around and stuff?"

"Of course we can," the Apocalypse nodded. "Why do you ask"

"It's like in the films," Martha told her. "You step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race."

The Apocalypse smirked. "Then don't step on any butterflies. What have butterflies ever done to you?"

"What if . . . I don't know. What if I kill my grandfather?"

The Apocalypse's eyebrows shot up. "Are you planning to?"

"No."

She shrugged. "Well, then . . . "

Martha finally stepped forward, and they walked down the street. "And this is London?"

"I think so," the Apocalypse nodded. "Round 1599."

"Oh, but, hold on," Martha paused. "Am I all right? I'm not going to get carted off as a slave, am I?"

"Martha, I'm not even human," the Apocalypse reminded her. "Just walk around like you own the place. Works for me. No one will even notice you're not white. Besides, you'd be surprised. Elizabethan England? Not so different from your time. Look over there." She pointed to a man shoveling manure. "They've got recycling." She nodded to a water barrel. "Water cooler moment."

"And the world will be consumed by flame," a preacher announced dramatically as they passed by.

"And the personal favorite, global warming," she finished with a smirk. "Oh, the world never changes." She perked up. "And my other favorite, entertainment! Popular entertainment for the masses. If I'm right, we're just down the river by Southwark, right next to - " She took off running, Martha scrambling to catch up to her. She smirked, stopping by the bridge. "The Globe Theatre!" she announced, holding out her arms, pleased when Martha's jaw dropped. "Brand new and just opened. Though, strictly speaking, it's not a globe. It's a tetradecagon. Fourteen sides. Containing the man himself!"

"Whoa!" Martha gasped. "You don't mean . . . is Shakespeare in there?!"

"Oh, yes," the Apocalypse smirked, holding out her arm. "Miss Jones, will you accompany me to the theatre?"

Martha grinned, taking her arm. "Miss Tyler, I will."

"And when you get home, you can tell everyone you've seen Shakespeare."

Martha beamed. "Then I could get sectioned!"

The Apocalypse laughed as they headed to the Globe.

***

"That's amazing!" Martha gushed when the play finished, applauding with everyone else. "Just amazing! It's worth putting up with the smell. And those are men dressed as women, yeah?"

"London never changes," the Apocalypse chuckled fondly.

"Where's Shakespeare?" Martha asked curiously. "I want to see Shakespeare. Author!" she shouted. "Author!" She paused, then looked sheepishly at the Apocalypse when she looked at her oddly. "Do people shout that? Do they shout author?"

"Author!" a man behind them called. "Author!"

The Apocalypse raised an eyebrow, looking around as the rest of the crowd took up the chant. "Well, they do now," she smirked.

Martha tilted her head as a rather good-looking man came out from behind the stage, smirking and waving to the audience. "He's a bit different from his portraits," she noticed.

"Genius," the Apocalypse smiled. "He's a genius. The genius! The most human human there's ever been." She grinned at Martha. "Always did choose the best words. And now we get to hear him speak."

"Ah, shut your big fat mouths!" Shakespeare shouted.

The Apocalypse did a double take as the crowd laughed, then huffed. "Oh, well."

Martha giggled. "You should never meet your heroes."

"You've got excellent taste, I'll give you that," Shakespeare continued before pointing at someone. "Oh, that's a wig." The Apocalypse and Martha exchanged smirks before listening attentively. "I know what you're all saying. Loves Labor's Lost. That's a funny ending, isn't it? It just stops. Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle, you'll find out soon. Yeah, yeah. All in good time. You don't rush a genius." The crowd grumbled, and Shakespeare suddenly went rigid. "When?" he asked, taking a dramatic pause. "Tomorrow night!" The Apocalypse blinked as the crowd cheered. "The premiere of my brand new play. A sequel, no less, and I call it - " Another dramatic pause. "Loves Labor's Won!"

The Apocalypse and Martha frowned at each other at the name and stood to go. "I'm not an expert, but I've never heard of Loves Labor's Won," Martha told the Apocalypse.

"That's because there isn't one," the Apocalypse frowned. "The lost play. It doesn't exist, only in rumors. It's mentioned in lists of his plays, but never ever turns up. And no one knows why."

"Have you got a mini-disc or something?" Martha wondered. "We can tape it. We can flog it. Sell it when we get home and make a mint."

The Apocalypse stared at her. "No," she answered.

Martha cringed. "That would be bad."

"Yeah."

"Well, how come it disappeared in the first place?"

"Well, I was just going to give you a quick little trip in the TARDIS, but . . . I suppose we could stay a bit longer." The Apocalypse grinned, and they took off.

***

The Apocalypse stopped in the doorway of Shakespeare's room at The Elephant tavern. "Hello!" she smiled at Shakespeare. "Excuse me, not interrupting, am I? Mr. Shakespeare, isn't it?"

Shakespeare groaned. "Oh, no," he sighed, shaking his head, not even looking at her. "Who let you in? No autographs, no, you can't have yourself sketched with me, and please don't ask where I get my ideas from." The Apocalypse smirked at Martha as she finally caught up. "Thanks for the interest, now be a good girl and shove - " He seemed to realize what he said and finally looked over at them, and his eyes widened, going even wider as Martha stepped to her side. "Hey, nonny, nonny," he grinned. "Sit right down here next to me." He made a shooing motion at his two friends. "You two get sewing on them costumes. Off you go."

"Come on, lads," the head maid smiled. "I think our William's found his new muses."

"Sweet ladies," Shakespeare admired as they stepped forward. "Such unusual clothes. So fitted."

"Er . . . " Martha smiled. "Verily! Forsooth, egads!"

"No, no, don't do that," the Apocalypse shook her head, wincing for more than one reason. One was the bad accent.

+++

The Apocalypse grinned. "Oh, I'm dazed and confused. I've been chasing my dear sister over hill and over dale." She winked at Rose. "Isn't that right, ya timorous beastie?"

Rose tried to put on a smile. "Och, aye!" she agreed in a horrible Scottish accent. "I've been oot and aboot!"

The Apocalypse cringed. "OK, don't do that."

Rose grinned for real at that. "Hoots, mon!"

"No, really, don't," the Apocalypse warned. "Really."

+++

"Don't," she warned Martha. "And I'm married," she added to Shakespeare, showing off her ring, a bit put off now that it was now a black band again with ten pink zircons before pulling out her psychic paper. "I'm Dame Apocalypse of TARDIS, and this is my companion, Miss Martha Jones."

If Shakespeare looked put off by the idea that she was married, he didn't show it. "Interesting," he said. "That bit of paper. It's blank."

The Apocalypse blinked, taking a look, before grinning widely. "Oh, that's very clever. That proves it. Absolute genius!"

"No, it says so right there," Martha pointed. "Dame Apocalypse, Martha Jones. It says so."

"And I say it's blank," Shakespeare insisted.

"Psychic paper," the Apocalypse told Martha. "Er . . . long story." She sighed. "Oh, I hate starting from scratch."

"Psychic?" Shakespeare mused. "Never heard that before, and words are my trade. Who are you exactly? More to the point, who is your delicious blackamoor lady?"

Martha blinked. "What did you say?!"

"Oops," Shakespeare made a face. "Isn't that a word we use nowadays? An Ethiop girl? A swarth? A Queen of Afric?"

Martha stared at him incredulously. "I can't believe I'm hearing this!"

"It's political correctness gone mad," the Apocalypse smirked. "Martha's from a far-off land. Freedonia."

"Excuse me!" The girls turned to see a well-dressed man enter through the door, looking upset. "Hold hard a moment. This is abominable behavior! A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mr. Shakespeare! As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed."

"Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it round," Shakespeare promised.

"I don't work to your schedule, you work to mine! The script, now!"

"I can't."

"Then tomorrow's performance is canceled!"

"It's all go around here, isn't it?" Martha whispered.

"I'm returning to my office for a banning order," the man said. "If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labors Won will never be played!"

Martha shrugged as the man left. "Well, then. Mystery solved. That's Love's Labors Won over and done with. Thought it might be something more, you know . . . more mysterious."

A man's scream echoed up through the window, followed by a woman's, and the Apocalypse took off running. "Help me!" the woman cried.

Martha stared as the Master of the Revels staggered into the courtyard, water spewing everywhere. "It's that Lynley bloke!"

"What's wrong with him?" the Apocalypse wondered, pushing through. "Excuse us! Let us through!"

Just as they got to Lynley's side, the man collapsed onto the ground. "Got to get the heart going," Martha mumbled, cracking her knuckles for CPR. "Mr. Lynley, come on. Can you hear me?" She started compressions, the Apocalypse watching and looking around warily. "You're going to be all right." Both women jumped back slightly when water spewed everywhere. "What the hell is that?"

"I've never seen a death like it," the Apocalypse whispered. "His lungs are full of water! He drowned, and then . . . I don't know, like a blow to the heart . . . an invisible blow." She stood up and approached the head maid of the tavern. "Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humors," she told her. "A natural if unfortunate demise. If I may suggest calling a constable and have him taken away?"

"Of course, ma'am," the maid nodded.

A redhead maid laid her hand on her arm. "I'll do it, ma'am," she said before heading off.

"And why are you telling them that?" Martha asked as the Apocalypse returned.

"This lot still have got one foot in the Dark Ages," the Apocalypse explained. "If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft."

"OK . . . what was it, then?"

The Apocalypse snapped her fingers, and a small flame crackled across her fingers. "Witchcraft," she answered.

***

"I got you a room, Dame Apocalypse," the maid, Dolly, said that evening as they gathered in Shakespeare's room. "You and Miss Jones are just across the landing."

The Apocalypse nodded politely as Shakespeare sighed. "Poor Lynley. So many strange events. Not least of all, this land of Freedonia where a woman can be a doctor?"

"Where a woman can do what she likes," Martha smirked.

"And you, Dame Apocalypse," Shakespeare considered, tilting his head. "How can a woman so young have eyes so old?"

"I do a lot of reading," she deadpanned.

"A trite reply. Yeah, that's what I'd do. And you?" he asked Martha. "You look at her like you're surprised she exists. She's as much of a puzzle to you as she is to me."

Martha narrowed her eyes. "I think we should say goodnight," she said curtly, turning and leaving.

Shakespeare straightened. "I must work. I have a play to complete. But I'll get my answers tomorrow, Apocalypse, and I'll discover more about you and why this constant performance of yours."

The Apocalypse smirked. "All the world's a stage," she said loftily.

"Hmm," Shakespeare said thoughtfully. "I might use that." The Apocalypse snickered quietly. "Goodnight, Apocalypse."

"Night night, Shakespeare," the Apocalypse waved and left.

***

"It's not exactly five star, is it?" Martha asked dubiously as she looked around.

"Oh, it'll do," the Apocalypse shrugged. "I've seen worse."

"I haven't even got a toothbrush!"

"Oh. Er . . . " The Apocalypse went through her cardigan pockets and finally pulled one out. "Contains Venusian spearmint," she said proudly, handing it over.

Martha looked at her in amusement. "So, who's going where? I mean, there's only one bed."

"We'll manage," the Apocalypse told her, flopping back and kicking her feet on top of each other. "Come on."

"So, magic and stuff." Martha grinned. "That's a surprise. It's all a little bit Harry Potter."

The Apocalypse grinned. "Wait till you read Book Seven! Oh, I cried."

"But is it real, though?" Martha asked. "I mean, witches, black magic, and all that, it's real?"

"You've seen me," the Apocalypse reminded her. "I've been called a witch before."

+++

"What is it now?" the Apocalypse asked dryly as her brother sat by her in the field they always used to play in.

"What?" the Master asked in mock confusion, looking over the chocolate bar he had. "I can't bring my little sister chocolate?"

"This is from the Dealer's private stock," the Apocalypse told him, taking the bar and hitting him on top of the head with it. "Either you stole it, or it's from your stash of chocolate you keep for when someone's insulted me."

The Master cringed. "It's the Controller's group again," he sighed. "They're calling you a witch."

"Any references to the Wicked Witch of the West?" the Apocalypse asked, going through the list of Earth musicals.

"A few."

The Apocalypse sighed. "Give me the chocolate."

The Master handed it over. "BJ, this has to stop," he said. "Why can't you drop out of that program?"

"I would if I could," the Apocalypse insisted. "Can't Mum and Dad do anything about it?"

"No," the Master shook his head. "They would if they could as well."

"I know," the Apocalypse whispered.

The Master put his arm around his little sister, seeing the tears in her eyes, kissing the top of her head and just holding her for a bit, knowing that as soon as their break was done, she would be going straight back to the Experimenting.

+++

"It's not nice," the Apocalypse continued, biting her lip at the memory of her brother. "but no, witchcraft isn't real. This was just Experiments."

"Experiments?" Martha asked softly.

"Not fun to talk about," the Apocalypse told her. "But this looks like witchcraft, but it isn't. It can't be." She eyed her. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

"Budge up a bit, then," Martha smiled. The Apocalypse scooted over, taking her cardigan off as Martha laid down next to her. "Sorry, there's not much room."

"There's such a thing as psychic energy, but a human couldn't channel it like that," the Apocalypse mused as they laid down. "Not without a generator the size of Taunton, and I think we'd have spotted that. No, there's something I'm missing, Martha. Something really close, staring me right in the face, and I can't see it." She bit her lip. "Rose would know," she whispered, and Martha furrowed her eyebrows. "My sister," she elaborated, and Martha's eyes widened, and she nodded in understanding. "Right now, she'd say exactly the right thing." She sighed. "Still, can't be helped." She nodded at her. "Never mind. I'll take you back home tomorrow."

Martha turned over so the Apocalypse wouldn't see her frown. "Great," she said, blowing out the candle.

***

The Apocalypse laid back, fiddling with the tasseled ends of her scarf when a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air. She scrambled out of bed, grabbing her cardigan, and she took off out the door. "What?" Shakespeare's voice asked as she barged in. "What was that?"

The Apocalypse dropped next to a fallen Dolly as Martha ran to the window. "Her heart gave out," she said in confusion. "She died of fright!"

"Apocalypse?" Martha called, sounding scared.

The Apocalypse straightened, looking at her. "What did you see?" she asked.

Martha swallowed. "A witch."

***

"Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey," Shakespeare mourned as the sun rose. "She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place when we all ran like rats. But what could have scared her so? She had such enormous spirit!"

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light," the Apocalypse quoted.

"I might use that."

"You can't. It's someone else's."

"But the thing is, Lynley drowned on dry land, Dolly died of fright . . . " Martha turned to Shakespeare. "And they were both connected to you."

Shakespeare's eyebrows shot up. "You're accusing me?"

"No, but I saw a witch, big as you like, flying, cackling away, and you've written about wi - "

"ANYWAY!" the Apocalypse said loudly, clapping a hand over Martha's mouth to stop her from saying "witches."

Shakespeare frowned at the interruption before something struck him. "Peter Streete spoke of witches," he recalled.

"Who's Peter Streete?" Martha asked.

"Our builder. He sketched the plans to the Globe."

"The architect," the Apocalypse nodded before her eyes widened. "Hold on. The architect, the architect!" she shouted. "The Globe! Come on!"

***

"The columns there, right?" the Apocalypse asked, her cardigan tied around her waist as she walked around in the pit audience, Shakespeare and Martha on the stage. "Fourteen sides. I've always wondered, but I never asked. Why fourteen sides?"

"It was the shape Peter Streete thought best, that's all," Shakespeare shrugged. "Said it carried the sound well."

"Fourteen," the Apocalypse muttered, scratching her head. "Why does that ring a bell? Fourteen . . . "

"There's fourteen lines in a sonnet?" Martha suggested.

The Apocalypse pointed at her. "Good point. Words and shapes following the same design . . . fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets . . . oh, my head!" She shook said head, going back to pacing. "Tetradecagon. Think, think, think! Words, letters, numbers, lines - "

"This is just a theatre!" Shakespeare sighed.

"Oh, yeah, but a theatre's magic, isn't it?" the Apocalypse quizzed. "You should know. Stand on this stage, say the right words with the right emphasis at the right time. Oh, you can make men weep, or cry with joy. Change them. You can change people's minds with just words in this place. But if you exaggerate that . . . "

"It's like your police box," Martha told her. "Small wooden box with all that power inside."

The Apocalypse grinned. "Oh, Martha Jones, I like you." Martha beamed at the compliment. "Tell you what, though. Peter Streete would know. Can I talk to him?"

"You won't get an answer," Shakespeare warned. "A month after finishing this place, lost his mind."

"Why?" Martha asked in concern. "What happened?"

"Started raving about witches, hearing voices, babbling. His mind was addled."

"Where is he now?" the Apocalypse asked.

"Bedlam."

"What's Bedlam?" Martha asked.

"Bethlem Hospital. The madhouse."

"We're going there, right now," the Apocalypse decided. "Come on!"

Martha took off after her. "Wait!" Shakespeare shouted. "I'm coming with you! I want to witness this first hand!"

***

Shakespeare caught up to Martha eventually. "So, tell me of Freedonia," he requested. "Where women can be doctors, writers, actors."

"This country's ruled by a woman," Martha reminded him.

"Ah, she's royal. That's God's business. Though you are a royal beauty."

"Whoa, Nelly," Martha held up her hands warningly. "I know for a fact you've got a wife in the country."

"But, Martha, this is Town!"

"Still, not a good reason to cheat," the Apocalypse cut in, staring at them. "Come on. If you want to do this, you can have a good flirt later."

Shakespeare eyed her. "Is that a promise, Apocalypse?"

The Apocalypse narrowed her eyes. "As if," she sneered. "Move it!"

Martha blinked, hurt, as the Apocalypse stormed off, before she blew out a breath and followed.

***

"Does my Lord Shakespeare wish some entertainment while he waits?" the Keeper asked with a sick grin. "I'd whip these madmen. They'll put on a good show for you. Mad dog in Bedlam - "

"Don't you even dare," the Apocalypse snarled.

The Keeper quickly nodded. "Well, wait here, my lord, while I make him decent for the ladies."

The Apocalypse shuddered, looking around the madhouse . . . taken back to some quite unpleasant memories of the Experimenting programs.

+++

The Apocalypse jerked back when one of the Time Lords twisted by the Experimenting programs rammed into his cage bars. "This is what happens when the Experimenting fails?" one of the other Time Ladies up for Experimenting, known as CS, the two letters she was willing to say of her true name.

The Apocalypse swallowed. "Must be," she answered hoarsely as they continued to follow the General through the halls, passing more and more cages, seeing more and more of the gold Vortex swirling around their feet.

CS shook her head, whimpering. "We can't deal with this!" she gasped, tears streaming down her face. "We can't!"

"I don't want to know what they do if we don't do this," the Apocalypse told her, tears of her own in her green eyes. "So we deal with it, yeah?"

CS whimpered, hugging herself tightly. The Apocalypse sighed and kept marching forward, keeping her head low so she wouldn't draw attention to herself.

+++

"So this is what you call a hospital, yeah?" Martha asked angrily. "Where the patients are whipped to entertain the gentry? And you put your friend in here?"

"Oh, it's all so different in Freedonia," Shakespeare rolled his eyes.

"But you're clever," Martha told him. "Do you honestly think this place is any good?"

"I've been mad," Shakespeare told her bluntly. "I've lost my mind. Fear of this place set me right again. It serves its purpose."

"Mad in what way?"

"You lost your son," the Apocalypse whispered.

Shakespeare nodded. "My only boy. The Black Death took him. I wasn't even there."

Martha blanched. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"It made me question everything," Shakespeare nodded. "The futility of this fleeting existence. To be or not to be." He blinked, looking thoughtful. "Oh, that's quite good."

The Apocalypse winked. "I'd write that down if I were you."

"Maybe not. A bit pretentious?"

"This way, my lady!" The Apocalypse followed the Keeper's voice and looked into the cell. "They can be dangerous, my lady. Don't know their own strength."

"I think it helps if you don't whip them," the Apocalypse growled. "Now get out!" The Keeper did, and the Apocalypse slowly stepped inside, approaching the figure in rags with his back to her. "Peter?" she whispered. "Peter Streete?"

"He's the same as he was," Shakespeare sighed. "You'll get nothing out of him."

"Peter?" the Apocalypse coaxed, putting a hand on his shoulder. Peter turned to her, eyes wide and staring. The Apocalypse smiled encouragingly, putting her hands on his temples. "Peter, I'm the Apocalypse," she whispered. "Go into the past. One year ago. Let your mind go back. Back to when everything was fine and shining. Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else. It was just a story. A Winter's Tale. Let go." Peter leaned back, and the Apocalypse helped him lie down. "That's it. That's it. Just let go. Tell me the story, Peter. Tell me about the witches."

"Witches spoke to Peter," Peter whispered. "In the night, they whispered. They whispered. Got Peter to build the Globe to their design. Their design! The fourteen walls, always fourteen. When the work was done, they snapped poor Peter's wits."

"Where did Peter see the witches?" the Apocalypse asked. "Where in the city? Peter, tell me. You've got to tell me. Where are they?"

Peter hesitated, then answered, "All Hallows Street."

"Too many words!" a voice cackled, and an old woman in a black ragged robe appeared.

"What the hell?" Martha breathed.

"Just one touch . . . " the witch said, holding up a finger.

"No!" the Apocalypse shouted.

The witch just put her hand on Peter's chest, and the man died instantly. "Witch!" Shakespeare gasped. "I'm seeing a witch!"

"Now, who would be next, hmm?" the witch asked. "Just one touch. Oh, oh, I'll stop your frantic hearts. Poor, fragile mortals."

"Let us out!" Martha screamed, banging on the door. "Let us out!"

"That's not going to work," the Apocalypse told her. "The whole building's shouting that."

"Who will die first, hmm?"

"Well, if you're looking for volunteers . . . " The Apocalypse raised a hand.

"No!" Martha yelped. "Don't!"

"Apocalypse, can you stop her?" Shakespeare asked.

"No mortal has power over me," the witch said smugly.

"Oh, but there's a power in words," the Apocalypse warned. "If I can find the right one . . . if I can just know you . . . "

"None on Earth has knowledge of us."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not from Earth, isn't it?" the Apocalypse asked, tilting her head, her eyes glowing gold, making the witch falter. "You're a humanoid female, using shapes and words to channel energy." She grinned. "And you really like the number fourteen, don't you? Fourteen! The fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration!" She pointed. "Creature, I name you Carrionite!"

Martha stepped back when the witch disappeared with a scream and in a flash of light. "What did you do?" she asked.

"I named her," the Apocalypse said simply. "The power of a name. That's old magic."

"But there's no such thing as magic!"

"Where I'm concerned, Martha, I'd've been executed time and time again for being a witch," the Apocalypse told her bitterly. "This is just a different type of science. You lot chose mathematics. Given the right string of numbers, the right equation, you can split the atom. Carrionites use words instead."

"Use them for what?" Shakespeare asked.

"Me." The Apocalypse narrowed her eyes. "Also known as the end of the world."

***

"The Carrionites disappeared way back at the dawn of the universe," the Apocalypse explained back in Shakespeare's room at The Elephant. "Nobody was sure if they were real or legend."

"Well, I'm going for real," Shakespeare said dryly.

"But what do they want?" Martha asked.

"A new empire on Earth," the Apocalypse answered. "A world of bones and blood and witchcraft." She shook her head. "Sounds like the Experiments if they were let loose everywhere."

"But how?"

The Apocalypse gave Shakespeare a pointed glance. "I'm looking at the man with the words."

Shakespeare started. "Me? But I've done nothing wrong."

"Hold on, though," Martha shook her head. "What were you doing last night, when that Carrionite woman was in the room?"

"Finishing the play."

"What happens on the last page?" the Apocalypse asked.

"The boys get the girls," Shakespeare shrugged. "They have a bit of a dance. It's all as funny and thought provoking as usual." He paused. "Except those last few lines." He blanched. "Funny thing is, I don't actually remember writing them."

"That's it," the Apocalypse nodded. "They used you. They gave you the final words like a spell, like a code. Love's Labors Won. It's a weapon. The right combination of words spoken at the right place with the shape of the Globe as an energy converter! The play's the thing!" She paused. "And yes, you can have that," she added to Shakespeare, pulling a crude map from the shelves. She scanned it before pointing to one of the streets. "All Hallows Street," she said. "There it is. Martha, we'll track them down. Will, you get to the Globe. Whatever you do, stop that play."

"I'll do it," he nodded. "All these years, I've been the cleverest man around. Next to you, I know nothing."

"Oh, don't complain," Martha rolled her eyes.

"I'm not," Shakespeare grinned. "It's marvelous. Good luck, Apocalypse."

"Good luck, Shakespeare," the Apocalypse nodded, running out the door. "Once more, unto the breach!"

"I like that," Shakespeare nodded before frowning. "Wait a minute. That's one of mine!"

The Apocalypse rolled her eyes, poking her head around the door. "Oh, just shift!" she whined.

***

"All Hallows Street," the Apocalypse nodded when they arrived. "But which house?"

"The thing is, though, am I missing something here?" Martha asked. "The world doesn't end in 1599. It just doesn't. Look at me. I'm living proof."

"Try and think of it like Back to the Future," the Apocalypse told her.

"The film?"

The Apocalypse rolled her eyes. "No, the novelization!" Martha frowned, put up with the attitude, and the woman sighed. "Fine, yes, the film. Marty McFly goes back and changes history."

"And he starts fading away," Martha nodded, getting it, when it suddenly caught up to her. "Oh, my God. Am I going to fade?"

"You, and the entire future of the human race," the Apocalypse nodded. "It ends right now in 1599, if we don't stop it. But which house?" She paused when one of the doors creaked open. "Ah." She nodded. "Make that witch house."

She went up the steps and paused at the top of the stairs, seeing the redheaded maid from The Elephant, Lilith, standing there in the witches' robes, smirking away. "I take it we're expected," she said lightly.

Lilith's smirk just got bigger. "Oh, I think Death has been waiting for you a very long time."

"Right, then," Martha said, stepping forward confidently. "It's my turn. I know how to do this. I name thee Carrionite!" She pointed at Lilith, who gasped, before she burst out laughing. Martha frowned, looking at the Apocalypse. "What did I do wrong? Was it the finger?"

"The power of a name works only once," Lilith told her. "Observe. I gaze upon this bag of bones, and now I name thee - " She pointed. "Martha Jones!"

Martha's eyes rolled up into the back of her head, and she collapsed back into the Apocalypse's arms. The Apocalypse quickly caught her before she hit the ground, and she glared at Lilith. "What have you done?" she snapped.

"Only sleeping, alas . . . " Lilith tilted her head. "It's curious. The name has less impact. She's somehow out of her time. As for you, Dame Apocalypse - " She pointed, but the Apocalypse quirked an eyebrow, smirking when the name did nothing at all. Lilith scowled. "Fascinating. There is no name. Why would a woman hide her title in such despair?" She paused, then smiled. "Oh, but look! There's still one word with the power that aches."

"The naming won't work on me," the Apocalypse warned.

"But your heart grows cold," Lilith smiled. "The north wind blows and carries down the distant . . . " She smirked. "Rose."

And the Apocalypse snapped. She snarled and made a slapping motion, and Lilith shrieked as she was telekinetically thrown into the wall. "Oh, big mistake," the Apocalypse snarled, stalking forward angrily, "because that name keeps me fighting!" She grabbed Lilith by her robes and slammed her into the wall. "The Carrionites vanished. Where did you go?"

Lilith swallowed, looking quite a bit scared by that violent display. "The Eternals found the right word to banish us into deep darkness," she answered.

"And how did you escape?"

"New words. New and glittering, from a mind like no other."

"Shakespeare."

"His son perished. The grief of a genius. Grief without measure. Madness enough to allow us entrance."

"How many of you?"

"Just the three. But the play tonight shall restore the rest. Then the human race will be purged as pestilence. And from this world, we will lead the universe back into the old ways of blood and magic."

"Hmm. Busy schedule. But first, you've got to get past me."

"Oh, that should be a pleasure," Lilith smirked, twirling one of the Apocalypse's fishtail braids around her finger. "Considering my enemy has such a beautiful shape."

The Apocalypse snorted. "Now, that's one form of magic that's definitely not going to work on a married woman."

"Oh, we'll see," Lilith smirked, tugging a few hairs from the braid and backing away.

"What did you do?" the Apocalypse asked, frowning at her.

"Souvenir."

"Well, give it back!" The Apocalypse moved forward, but Lilith just flew out of the window backwards. The Apocalypse huffed. "Oh, you do not want to play that game with me, missy."

"Behold, Apocalypse," Lilith told her, wrapping the hair around a wooden doll. "Witches like you to Carrionites are nothing but puppets."

"Now, you might call that magic," the Apocalypse told her. "I'd call that a DNA replication module."

"What use is your science now?" Lilith asked before using a pin to stab the doll in the chest.

The Apocalypse screamed and collapsed, one of her hearts giving out. "Oh, my God, Apocalypse!" Martha shouted, running over. "Don't worry, I've got you."

"Two hearts," the Apocalypse ground out. "I've only got one heart working. How do you people cope? Got to get the other one started. Hit me! Hit me on the chest!" Martha shook her head and thumped. "Dah! Other side!" Martha did. "Now, on the back, on the back." Martha sighed, but did so. "Let a bit. Dah! Lovely. There we go!" She jumped to her feet, grinning. "Badda booma! Well, what are you standing there for? Come on! The Globe!"

***

The Apocalypse stopped short at the bridge, staring at the red light hanging over the Globe. "I told thee so!" the preacher from before shouted as people ran past, screaming. "I told thee!"

"Stage door!" the Apocalypse told Martha, heading in that direction. She ran in, pausing when she saw Shakespeare lolling his head backstage. "Stop the play," she told him. "I think that was it. Yeah, I said stop the play!"

"I hit my head," Shakespeare told her, rubbing his head.

"Yeah, don't rub it, you'll go bald," the Apocalypse warned before thunder cracked and more screams rang out. "I think that's my cue!"

She ran out onto the stage, watching bat-like creatures swoop around. "Come on, Will!" she coaxed as Shakespeare and Martha followed her out. "History needs you!"

"But what can I do?" he asked.

"Reverse it!"

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"The shape of the Globe gives words power, but you're the wordsmith, the one true genius. The only man clever enough to do it."

"But what words? I have none read!"

"You're William Shakespeare!"

"But these Carrionite phrases, they need such precision!"

"Trust yourself," she told him. "When you're locked away in your room, the words just come, don't they? Like magic. Words of the right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm. Words that last forever. That's what you do, Will. You choose perfect words. Do it. Improvise."

Shakespeare stared at her, then took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Close up this din of hateful, dire decay, decomposition of your witches' plot," he called. "You thieve my brains, consider me your toy. My Apocalypse tells me I am not! Foul Carrionite specters, cease your show! Between the points - "

"Seven six one three nine oh!" the Apocalypse supplied.

"Seven six one three nine oh!" Shakespeare nodded. "Banished like a tinker's cuss, I say to thee - " He paused, trying to think of a rhyme.

Martha blinked before shouting, "Expelliarmus!"

The Apocalypse grinned. "Expelliarmus!" she cheered.

"Expelliarmus!" Shakespeare repeated.

"Good old JK!" the Apocalypse whooped as a tornado appeared, sucking the Carrionites and the play parts into it. "Loves Labors Won," she sighed. "There it goes."

Martha stared as the sky cleared with a bang, and then all of the audience began to clap and cheer. "They think it was all special effects?" she asked curiously.

"Your effect is special indeed," Shakespeare told her.

Martha sighed. "It's not your best line."

***

The Apocalypse stepped up into the balcony, smirking when she saw a crystal ball lying in the bottom. She picked it up, cooing at the witches clawing and trying to get out. "Who's the most powerful witch of them all?" she smirked.

***

"And I say, a heart for a hart and a dear for a deer," Shakespeare grinned, telling Martha a joke the next morning.

"I don't get it," Martha shook her head.

"Then give me a joke from Freedonia."

"OK . . . Shakespeare walks into a pub and the landlord says, Oi, mate, you're Bard!"

"That's brilliant!" Shakespeare laughed. "Doesn't make sense, mind you, but never mind that. Now, come here."

Martha put a hand on his chest when he tried to kiss her. "I've only just met you!"

"You may never meet a man who will kiss you," he told her. "Why not entertain a man who will?"

Martha wrinkled her nose. "I don't know how to tell you this, oh great genius, but . . . your breath doesn't half stink."

"Good props store back there," the Apocalypse complimented as she walked out, juggling a skull and the crystal ball in her hands, a ruff around her neck. "I'm not sure about this, though," she frowned, catching the skull. "Reminds me of a Sycorax."

+++

The Sycorax suddenly swiped at the Apocalypse's neck, and she cried out when he drew blood, the necklace chain she'd been given by Jack being cut. It fell down to Earth, and the Apocalypse doubled over, hand to her neck. "You just slit my neck," she whispered faintly, her sword falling from her grasp.

"Ya!" the Sycorax cried, holding up his sword, the other Sycorax cheering. "Sycorax!"

"And now I know what sort of woman I am," the Apocalypse chuckled, slowly straightening. "I'm lucky. Because, quite by chance, I'm still within the first fifteen hours of my regeneration cycle, which means I've got just enough residual cellular energy to do . . . this." She wrung her neck out, and Rose's eyes widened when the slit in her neck vanished completely, the only signs of any wound being the blood staining the collar of her pajamas.

"Witchcraft," the Sycorax accused.

"Time Lady," the Apocalypse corrected, holding out her hands, and two swords flew from their owners into her own hands, slapping into her palms. "Experiment of Gallifrey." She spun them expertly, and Rose grinned. "And you know the best bit?" she asked with a smirk. "This body? She's a fighter!"

+++

"Sycorax," Shakespeare mused. "Nice word. I'll have that off you as well."

"I should be on ten percent," the Apocalypse pointed at him. "How's your head?"

"Still aching."

"Here. I got you this." The Apocalypse put the crystal ball under her arm and took off the ruff, putting it on Shakespeare. "Neck brace. Wear that for a few days till it's better . . . although, you might want to keep it. It suits you."

"What about the play?" Martha asked.

"Gone," the Apocalypse answered. "I looked all over. Every single copy of Love's Labors Won went up in the sky."

"My lost masterpiece," Shakespeare sighed.

"You could write it up again," Martha suggested.

"Yeah, better not, Will," the Apocalypse shook her head. "There's still power in those words. Maybe it should best say forgotten."

"Oh, but I've got new ideas," Shakespeare smiled. "Perhaps it's time I wrote about fathers and sons, in memory of my boy, my precious Hamnet."

Martha blinked. "Hamnet?" she repeated.

"That's him."

" . . . Hamnet?"

Shakespeare frowned. "What's wrong with that?"

"Anyway!" the Apocalypse said loudly, and Martha nodded quickly, understanding that she should be quiet. "Time we were off. I've got a nice attic in the TARDIS where this lot can scream for all eternity - " She held up the crystal ball. "And I've got to take Martha back to Freedonia."

"You mean travel on through time and space," Shakespeare translated.

The Apocalypse nearly dropped the ball. "You what?" she sputtered.

"You're from another world like the Carrionites, and Martha is from the future. It's not hard to work out."

The Apocalypse stared at him before grinning. "That's incredible," she beamed. "You are incredible!"

"We're alike in many ways, Apocalypse," Shakespeare told her before turning to Martha. "Martha, let me say goodbye to you in a new verse. A sonnet for my Dark Lady. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" Martha's jaw dropped, and she looked at the Apocalypse incredulously, seeing the woman start to snicker. "Thou art more lovely and more temperate - "

"Will!" one of the actors shouted, running into the theatre.

"Will, you'll never believe it!" the other one cried. "She's here! She's turned up!"

"We're the talk of the town! She heard about last night. She wants us to perform it again!"

"Who?" Martha asked in confusion.

The actor grinned. "Her Majesty! She's here!"

The Apocalypse straightened as with a fanfare, Queen Elizabeth I entered with two pikemen. "Queen Elizabeth the First!" she grinned.

But Elizabeth took one look at her and narrowed her eyes. "Apocalypse?" she asked.

The Apocalypse blinked. "What?"

"My sworn enemy!"

"What?!"

"Off with her head!"

The Apocalypse shook her head, confused. "What?" she whined.

"Never mind that!" Martha cried. "Just run!" She grabbed her arm. "See you, Will," she winked at Shakespeare. "And thanks!"

"Stop that pernicious Apocalypse!" Elizabeth shouted.

Shakespeare laughed as the two women took off with the guards behind her.

***

"Stop in the name of the Queen!"

"What have you done to upset her?" Martha asked in confusion when they made it to the TARDIS.

"How should I know?" the Apocalypse grinned. "Haven't even met her yet! That's time travel for you. Still, can't wait to find out." She opened the TARDIS doors and leaned in the doorway as Martha went in. "That's something to look forward to," she remarked before blinking. "Oop!" She ducked inside quickly and closed the door, cringing when the TARDIS hummed angrily as she got an arrow stuck in her door. "Sorry, girl," she said, patting the wall before huffing. "Why is it always the queens?" she sighed, walking up to the console . . . and she slowed, thinking back again.

+++

"Not remotely amused," Victoria continued. "And henceforth . . . I banish you."

The Apocalypse blinked. "I'm sorry, say what?"

"I rewarded you, Dame Apocalypse, and now you are exiled from this empire, never to return," Victoria replied. "I don't know what you are, the two of you, or where you're from, but I know that you consort with stars and magic and think it fun. But your world is steeped in terror and blasphemy and death, and I will not allow it. You will leave this shores and you will reflect, I hope, on how you came to stray so far from all that is good, and how much longer you will survive this terrible life. Now leave my world and never return."

"Lovely," the Apocalypse nodded slowly. "Great, yeah. We'll just . . . go." She turned. "Rose?"

"Yeah?"

She grinned. "Run!"

She snapped open a portal between the two of them, and as everyone gasped around her, they stepped inside.

+++

Martha frowned, seeing the woman pause. "Apocalypse? Are you all right?"

She snapped out of it. "Fine," she nodded quickly, moving to take off. "I'm always all right."

Martha frowned, watching her, just knowing . . .

No. She wasn't all right.

***

The cover for "The Shakespeare Code" on the side. :)

Can I just say how much fun "The Day of the Apocalypse" is going to be? :D It's going to be interesting, I can say that. With the Bad Wolf and the Apocalypse, there are at least two other OCs for "The Day of the Doctor" that are going to be so much fun to write!

Oh, but, also, Martha is going to be more understanding of the Apocalypse's ignorance of her, due to the fact that she knows Rose is the Apocalypse's sister, not like the Doctor's "crush" from the original series. No Martha hating here, even if she will get it hard a few times. :)

We'll get a curious Torchwood team up next, and then we'll get to "Gridlock!"