"Mr. Ryder...may I call you John? John," the Doctor continued, without waiting for a response, "you could have just joined a gym. Or, with your resources, you could afford some of the best conventional plastic surgeons in the world. Yet here you are, sitting in my office. We both know this is about more than improving your looks, yes? For a man who just turned forty three you're already in better shape than most people your age, better than most people half your age, so what are you really after?"
John shifted in his chair, feeling like a kid who'd been called down to the Principal's office. For a man used to facing down angry investors and impatient Boards of Directors, it was an unfamiliar experience. "I'd read that you can do things no other surgeon can. Results that bordered on the miraculous...actually turning back time. It's ridiculous, I know. I don't believe in miracles, Doctor, but I've been around long enough to know better than to judge a book by its cover," he said, motioning to the small, ramshackle office around them.
"That doesn't answer the question though, does it?" The Doctor leaned back in his chair and threw his hands up with a friendly smile. "That's okay. Most of my clients don't know why they're truly here at first."
John bristled at the Doctor's dismissive, condescending tone. He knew exactly why he was there; to get the kind of body he'd had twenty years ago, not engage in philosophical debates. He'd actually already been to a dozen plastic surgeons and had plowed through just as many personal trainers, but he wasn't getting the results he wanted. He didn't want surgery and silicone any more than he wanted bulky muscle under his rough, weathered skin. He wanted his thinning, salt-and-pepper hair to be thick and full again. He wanted the creases and wrinkles gone from his face. He wanted to be able to fuck for hours on end again. He wanted the impossible. Or so he thought.
It was the last reputable surgeon he'd seen who had pointed him in the Doctor's direction. The older man had clearly grown frustrated with John's impatient, ridiculous demands and jokingly suggested that he go find the man only known as "The Doctor." A few weeks later and John was on his way to a small mountain town in middle-of-nowhere Argentina, ready to shell out obscene amounts of money to get the version of himself he desired, whatever the risk.
"Due respect, Doctor, I know exactly what I'm looking for," John said, his tone flat. "If you don't think you can do it, let's not waste any more time."
The Doctor raised a bushy eyebrow, his grin never wavering as he leaned forward and opened the top drawer of his desk. "Do you know what this is?"
John's expression was equally unchanged as he looked at the small, crude knife. It was made of glassy stone, smooth like obsidian, but a deep green instead of black, with a piece of leather tied around the base for a grip. He could see markings on the leather between the Doctor's bony fingers, though he had no idea what the language was. "Some native dagger? What is it...obsidian?"
The Doctor stared at the knife as he rotated it in his hands. Instead of reflecting off the glossy surface as they should, the dusty beams of light filtering in through the dirty windows were absorbed by the green surface, giving the rustic blade an almost luminescent quality. "Good guess, but no. Meteorite."
John waited for the thin little man to continue, but the Doctor only stared at the blade in silence. "Aaaaand that means what to my specific situation?" he asked impatiently.
The Doctor's smile finally faded as he looked at John as if the question was foolish. "Everything. Do you have any idea how old this is?"
John gripped the arms of his chair, his thick arms inflating as he tensed and took a deep, slow breath, trying not to let his annoyance show. "I didn't fly halfway around the world for a hist..."
The Doctor shook his head and rubbed his chin, itself nearly as sharp and pointed as the knife in his hands. "See? This is what I'm talking about. The answer is right in front of you and still you bark and stomp and bluster. You're not ready." He set the knife down and pulled the round, wire-rim spectacles from his face, polishing them against the front of his shirt before motioning with a thin arm towards the door. "You can go. Come back when you're truly ready to change."
John clenched his lantern jaw in frustration as he slowly stood and turned to leave. He'd negotiated enough in his career to know a power play when he saw one, and he wasn't ready to give in to the Doctor and beg just yet. So far he hadn't seen anything remotely close to what he'd heard, leaving him to wonder if the whole thing had been a pointless goose chase. Without a word he crossed the small office, opened the door and stepped through, only to find himself stepping back inside instead of out.
There hadn't been any sign or warning that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. When John opened the door he saw the dusty foothills outside, but when he crossed the threshold it was as if he was walking in from the front porch all over again. There was no vertigo or sense of being turned around; just a simple step through a doorway.
