[ WP ] What you are never really mattered , it 's about who you are .

My village has this tradition. For your coming of age, you are taken somewhere out in the desert. From there, you have to make your way back. Only after you ’ ve faced the harsh sands and the true nature of one ’ s self can you be called an adult. 
 As you can imagine, the journey isn ’ t your regular stroll in the garden. To this day, there are many lost children out there. Some say they found something else and chose not to return. I say they ’ re all ghosts still trying to find their way home. 
 
 Preparing is also done by the traveler as part of the tradition. As long as you think it ’ s useful, you ’ re allowed to bring anything. Besides food, water and medicine I chose my rifle, a long white hood to protect me from the sun, a good knife and some other small tools I might need. I ’ m not like others that take pictures or their favorite toy. I want to make it back and have them all when I return! 
 
 Our truck was ready. I and the other children were on board saying our goodbyes as it drove us into the desert. We all drank something, milky white before we left. It soon put us all to sleep. 
 
 I awoke alone under the shade of a rock. My journey had begun. 
 
 By week one, I roamed hundreds of kilometers. I tried following stars, my compass, the map where I ’ ve marked landmarks. The village was nowhere near. 
 
 Week two left me without water. Dew and what I could find in crevices would sustain me now. 
 
 I cut a big gash in my leg when I slipped off a cliff side in week three. Stitching it up hurt more than the actual fall. Yet, the thought of home hurt most. 
 
 Week six. Maybe it was the lack of water, the scraps of food or the infection growing in my leg, the body gave up. And with it, all hope of returning. 
 I fell asleep once more. 
 
 I don ’ t know the time anymore. I don ’ t remember how I look and where I ’ m supposed to go. The sands are endless and I keep walking them since the first day I opened my eyes. I was wearing a worn out cloak and next to me, there was a rifle. I took them both and walked towards home. A notion stuck in my head. 
 
 This place holds many mysteries. If you walk long enough, you ’ ll get past all the rocks and dirt, and see the graveyard valleys. All filled with metal parts, silver skulls, and rusty hands. Much like mine. Will I end up like that, I ’ ve asked myself. Just another corpse to rust in the sun. 
 A few times it almost happened. No matter how empty the desert feels you ’ re never alone. The are beasts and there are roamers. There are camps and there are villages. 
 
 
 They mostly keep you at gunpoint, with their cybernetic arms firmly grasping the weapon. Best, they may trade with you some, worst, they ’ ll shoot on sight. The corrosive round that pierced my shoulder is a reminder. I ’ ve tried asking the friendlier ones for `` home,'' with no results. 
 
 I was hiding from chasing scavengers one day. As I was scanning the area, a cliff triggered an old map I had memorized. A marked landmark. It was the same map that had the location of “ home. ” 
 
 By nightfall, I arrived at the X and found myself in front of a village made out of clay and metal. As I approached, weapon in hand, old data started to flood. Memories, not from when I woke up, but... from when I left this place. 
 
 Back from when I had organic tissue and my whole world was this place. A child preparing to endure his people ’ s greatest trial. A road where you have to brave the harsh sands and the true nature of one ’ s self. 
 
 At the end of the road, close to the entrance, a figure was waiting with her steel hand extended. 
 
 Are you ready to come home?
