John is one of eight mech pilots heroically protecting Earth from an alien invasion. Pretty easy on the moral choices. See evil monster from space, kill evil monster from space. Only then he actually meets one of them face to face.

-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has joined memo CALLING ALL JACKASSES -- CG: THANK LITTLE JEGUS AND ALL HIS WIGGLER-EATING ELVES. WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING STATUS. CA: oh great and wwhich human evven is that again TT: Oh, please. We both know perfectly how well you remember me, Mr. Ampora. TT: My status is, if you will permit the bad joke, wet and horny. CG: MY GANDERBULBS JUST IMPLODED FROM GROSS BY PROXY. WHAT THE CROTCHBLISTERING *FUCK*, LALONDE? TT: As in, I have just emerged from what is either a recuperacoon or a fairly good mock-up, and there are protrusions attached to my skull that I am inclined to believe would be candy-corn-colored. CG: ... OH. YEAH, VERY AMUSING. I AM VERY AMUSED. HERE IS A PICTOGRAPHIC REPRESENTATION OF MY MIRTH. |:B

Wherein, Having Beaten A Game, All Players Are Taken Back To The Same, Worst Available Universe, With Species Changes To Match For Those Who Did Not Match Beforehand. In short: You're all trolls now, welcome to Alternia.

He lands butterfly-light in a swirl of hair and glittering gauze, and the ceiling crashes to the rink all around him. His ears are ringing with heartbeats, his efforts, the cries of the crowd. The rink wobbles under him -- must have landed a bit wrong but he can work through it. Only there are things strewn all over the ice; people usually know to wait until the end to throw roses and tokens and -- Not applause. Screams. The light is wrong because a fourth of the ceiling projectors are missing. The sky is dark. No stars. Something gleams behind the broken sky. And moves. Something he can't -- won't -- something. Something that's looking at him.