An innocent walks through the Flat Earth Research Centre. He has a plan; though Flat Earth literature might be a source of comfort in these trying times, few would seek it out during the moonlight hours. Most are huddled together, watching one another futilely in a hope the penguin would reveal themselves.
Armed with non-Euclidean powers as they are though, the final werepenguin makes no such slip.
Things are getting desperate. The one searches; penguins are the historic foes of FET, if there is any weapon, any hint, it must be in here. He was not going to die!
He hears a whirring.
Suddenly nervous, he glanced around, then continues. he keeps close to the wall, peers out around every corner before walking. That sound... it's not flippers, but that doesn't mean the penguin is not responsible.
He turns-
And finds himself overlooking a pit, and gulps. he knows this place; were the Centre fully functioning, it would illustrate an aetheric whirlpool, water kept in constant motion with the Sun and planets floating in position.
That had been days ago. Now the water has been drunk, and someone who got tired of marshmallows had taken a bite out of Mars. Not that any of the planets are left.
At the bottom of the pool was a large blade, meant to spin and cause the water rotate; now, without much liquid left, it just screeches. it has already shredded and blended the model planets.
But someone had to have turned it on...
He looks around for something to defend himself with, just in case; his eyes catch on a model rocket, large and sturdy enough to serve as a club. The model was meant to show the absurdity of space travel; he almost laughed at the irony. Now it would save him-
But as he reaches, something rushes out of the shadows and strikes him in the side. He cries out and flouders as he falls; he reaches for the rim of the pit, only to curse his lack of opposable thumbs.
Bullwinkle falls into the spinning blade, screaming. His hooves are ground to a fine paste before his head has even slumped forwards enough.
Antlers are the last part of him to be seen, clattering separately around the pit before they to are blended to nothing. Bruce Forsice looks down with fierce triumph.
He turns off the blade. Below him, all that is left of Bullwinkle is a moose mousse.
Bullwinkle, an innocent, is dead.
The day, possibly the final day, begins.