I would like to start an official movement to replace the prevalence of manpain in fiction with granpain.
A grandmother’s boyfriend is left dead in her apartment. She cradles the body tenderly. Her face hardens. SHE WILL GET HER REVENGE.
A grandmother stands on a roof, in a billowy leather coat. A single perfect tear trickles down her cheek — but when she turns around to confront her ten attackers, there is no trace of it.
"No," says a grandmother, when her grandchildren attempt to dissuade her from her lonely path of vigilante justice, and turns her sad, noble profile to the side. "I work alone.”
When War Doctor left, he regenerated into a new man.
The Ninth Doctor.
He didn’t remember anything about what happened before. Seeing his future self, saving Gallifrey…
But he did know that he had to go,
to find something.
Something that had to do with…