We're all ushered into the line like sheep, the small plastic cup in my right hand shaking.

Groans echoed up the line from the back, boring. . . This is dumb. . . But the further I travelled the quieter it got.

I could see the fountain now, small droplets of moisture misted over the edge and onto the concrete. The person at the front braved the mists, their motions that of a black shadow as they dipped their cup in and drank the icy cold water.

I didn't actually know if it was cold. That was a guess on my behalf. I crossed my fingers hoping it was, drinking warm water sucks!

So anyway, three people back from the front of the line now and I can hear the noise of the fountain. This thing is roaring, like I'm sitting five feet away from the Niagra falls.

It gets to my turn and I step forward, into the mist. I can barely find my way, but I keep it simple and walk straight ahead.

Crack!

Ouch. That's the sound of my knee hitting brick. I imagined this experience as something much more 'holy'. But whatever.

I dip my cup into the goo, it comes out all sticky. Nothing like water. Then I peer at the centre of the fountain, the roaring I heard earlier is really coming from this big metal machine.

I look across and I see the people that had been in line before me. Their eyes are glowing red, every one of them. They're just standing their motionless, waiting.

Shit. . . I think. Is that what becoming mature is about? Joining mindless drones like the rest of them?

I turn tail, screw this I'd rather just be a kid forever.

But something stops me, a bar across my chest. I look up at the Sherrif, his metal baton is laid out neatly across my chest and barring my path back to the others. I try and scream, shout for help. But I don't know if i'm looking in the right direction, the mist is way to foggy.

Mr.Sherrif guy guides me back to the fountain. I fill my cup with the sticky goo and sniff it.

Eurgh, smells just like fine leather suits and Cuban cigars. I hold my nose and skull back the mixture.

Then it hits me. First the stiffness, I can barely move my arms and legs on my own accord. Then the little voice in my head. . .

Don't do that. Move forward. You're not allowed back there.

It overpowers me. . . I walk toward the other robots, all fighting to be free again.

I can't believe I lined up for this voluntarily.

I guess that in the end, I got what I asked for. . .

Maturity. . .