Death of a Homestuck

Imagine a day in the far future. You are old, weak, lonely. You live alone in an empty house. Your children seldom visit. On this day you have gone grocery shopping. You get out of your old car and make your way to the front door. Something feels off. You drop your groceries on the porch and go inside. You have the strong urge to go the attic. You must go to the attic. As you approach the stairs, you notice that the door at the top hangs open. For some reason this does not bother you. The lights are turned on and you start up the stairs. You run your hands over the paint of symbols that have long lost your memory. The attic has been neglected for many a year and everything wears a coating of dust. You look to the center, where a glowing and almost cartoon-like man stands. You know this face. He beckons to you. Come hither my child. A thought inserted into your mind. You shuffle forward. His hand rises to touch lightly upon a spot just above your heart. Yours rises to meet it. You turn to a mirror, now clear, and lift your shirt. A tattoo you had forgotten about, faded with age. You reach out and touch the image with trembling turn around and are surrounded by familiar faces, human and alien alike. One steps forward and kneels before you with a broken sword. He wears the garb of an old knight. The dark red is comforting. Aviators adorn his face. He takes off the sunglasses and rises. Hands rest on your shoulders as he looks deep into your eyes. He speaks. "Do you remember?" He then touches you lightly on the forehead. Tears spring to your eyes as the memories come back. Joy. Sorrow. Melancholy. You remember the people, the conventions, the art, fanfictions, cosplays! The faces of your friends long dead flash by in your head. Then come memories of great darkness. The assassination of the great creator of Homestuck. A great funeral was held and fans from around the globe flocked to the burial. Not one reader missed it. You start to tear about the room, flipping through cosplays on hangers and racks. You look through boxes of memoirs. A broken katana here, a pair of ridiculous shades there, the box set of autographed books that your children were never worthy enough to read. Orange wings that you made yourself sit neatly on a table. A box with the game. A box full of bicycle horns, pie tins, horns, a blue tail, a trench coat, a broken pair of glasses, each a different reminder of your past. Each its own reminder of the thing that shaped your life, inspired you. You turn to your heroes of old and hug each and every one of them. You turn to him, the great Andrew Hussie, and ask a question. "What does this all mean?" He reaches out and takes your hand in his. This, my dear, is your cue to exit. You have been called to leave this life and fall into another. A light flashes, then nothingness. Your neighbors decide to visit the next day and find you, dead on the floor, but with a smile on your face.