Starting from the End: William Ryse and The Abyss The ships wreckage lay scatter across the beach like shatter glass on a tile floor, the only difference of the sand was that it looked as if it was trying to eat the massive metal shards; trying to engulfed them in its beige abyss, not unlike a black hole. Bodies littered the wreckage also scattered, flung from where they been when they hit the atmosphere, with no shields. "No shields," he coughed, shaking his head. Or trying to, it hurt to much to move for where he'd managed to prop himself up on the least jagged piece of metal that had once been his pride and glory. That had once been the only thing he'd loved. But now, he lay in the sand of a place his memories told him he should see as own; memories that weren't his own, and it was foreign and cold. So he clung to the only thing he really knew he loved as his lung pleaded for air that it simply couldn't reserve with a metal beam wedged threw it. The metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue.