In the Junkyard, it rained. Endlessly. Unforgiving. Cold. Rain washed away the blood and smaller fleshy pieces of half-eaten demonic corpses until the separate streams pooled together into one murky red conglomeration of death, primal death. Because in the Junkyard, it always rained.
There was no sun in her paradise. God was disconnected.
All the land of her pitiful world was undeniably barren and devoid of life, or at least, life besides the warring tribes. Relics of civilizations unknown were strewn about the Junkyard like discarded toys. The residents, the tribes, didn't much care for what they were as long as the structures served them strategically. Because her paradise was a collection of everything she had wanted in life, but was never able to obtain.
It was a deep scar; a festering wound. It was a world coming to an end for the second time.
Her paradise was a war. The Embryon, the Vanguards, the Soldis, the Brutes, the Maribel, and the Wolves fought with the sole intention of defeating all the others and ascending to Nirvana—where they might find a paradise separate from hers.
She had never intended for any of this.
Her paradise was supposed to have been a happy place. She was supposed to see the blue skies—a bright sun—the world—with her makeshift friends. With Serph Sheffield. With Heat O'Brien. With the nurse, Argilla. With Cielo, the boy she met in the God Project. With Schröedinger. With everyone.
The Karma Society saw different use for her paradise. Thus, her friends had to suffer and die again.
Her paradise was a farce.