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"Make me a god," you command, and Dottore obliges; like you are already one to him.
You purse your lips in satisfaction, taking his defined jaws and cup them between your delicate palms. You stare into his eyes, a pair of rubies glinting in what seem like adoration. A novel one at that. It's a pleasant feeling, you think, as you recall your mother who has never acknowledged you (let alone adore you). You recall the people of Tatarasuna then— cordial as they may, you were never treated as a being higher than them, always and always an equal despite your noble birth.
But Dottore is different.
It vexes you to admit this, but that puny human is the only one who acknowledges your birthright, so you let him put a gnosis into you like he is giving you a heart to hold on to, let him built you a dedicated factory like it's a temple meant to worship you. You don't question the excruciating experiments he puts you through, for he assures you they are of necessity. You agree with him: a god ought to be resilient and strong, ought to be everything mortals could not, and you are confident in your ability to stand those tests of divinity.
Despite your frail-looking figure, you're still a son of god, made of unbreakable bones and indestructible limbs.
You enter the giant robot; a heavenly throne Dottore has prepared to be the witness of your birth as a full-fledged god. You stiffen as he plugs those cables into your back, but he kisses your nape and you shiver at his warm breath brushing the back of your neck. Finally, he climbs down the robot and watches your majestic rise, because you are his apotheosis and he is your first apostle. You stand high on the platform as he names you anew: The Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom (a little over the top, but it is an exalted title that suits you nonetheless).
You straighten your back. The only thing left now is to wait for Buer.