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“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” the Doctor said, fairly sure that he didn’t.
“Certainly,” answered his host, a green-skinned humanoid answering to the name “Roboplious” and holding the title of Prime President of the planet Sanctuary.
“You were having some trouble with a Sontaran war fleet,” the Doctor began, ticking points off on his fingers as he went.
“Yes, indeed. They seemed quite convinced that we were a breeding colony for the Rutan Host. We! Can you imagine?” President Roboplious shuddered.
The Doctor had to admit that the mix-up seemed unlikely, but he disregarded this in favor of the even more improbable event which had apparently happened next. “And it was at this point that the, er, Saviour appeared?” He coughed discreetly, intending to make it clear that he was simply using the Sanctuarians’ name for their visitor as a courtesy and not because he actually felt the sentient in question deserved the title. Which he didn’t. Obviously.
“Oh, he was marvelous!” the President enthused. “First of all, he actually spoke Sontaran! No one around here did, you know, so that was quite helpful.”
The Doctor thought, mutinously, that this was not an especially impressive feat, given access to a TARDIS translation matrix. But it had clearly impressed the locals, whose president was continuing in his effusive praise.
“Then he had such a grasp of biology – generations beyond ours, I can assure you! – and explained to the Sontarans that it was genetically impossible for us to evolve, mutate, or be bioengineered into anything like a Rutan.”
The Doctor forced a smile and nodded. “And the Sontarans just… accepted that?”
“They seemed quite apologetic,” the President said happily. “They even tried to rebuild some of the things they’d destroyed – although between you and I, Doctor, architecture isn’t one of their strong suits. We were forced to redo most of their work after they’d left. But they left! It was brilliant! And all thanks to the Saviour.” The President here made some complicated gesture, doubtless one of respect.
“And so,” the Doctor concluded, voice rising in incredulity, “In – in thanks for your deliverance” (this through gritted teeth) “you erected a statue in his honor?”
“Well, he was just so modest, you see, he absolutely refused to take anything material,” the President burbled.
The Doctor tried to find a way to verbally express his extreme shock and complete disbelief, but there was just no phrase that seemed up to doing the job. He turned his head slightly to the left, which gave him an excellent view, over the Prime President’s balcony, of the three hundred meter high statue (!) they’d erected of their so-called Saviour. From its position overlooking the city, the Master’s image smiled benevolently down on him.
“He must have taken something when you weren’t looking,” the Doctor said desperately. “Have you noticed some supply of minerals has been mysteriously depleted? Or perhaps some cultural artifact has vanished?”
“We tried to give him a fruit basket,” the President said thoughtfully. “But he said his species couldn’t eat pears.”
The Doctor stared at the statue in helpless bewilderment. This, he thought blankly. This is what going mad feels like.