Moonlight glints off my visor.  It is hypnotizing, alluring, even warm.  Or it would be, if I could feel.  Right now, my heart is pounding in my ears and adrenaline is pumping through my veins.  I am alive.  I am invincible.  I really believe that I could change this war.  Come to think of it, I probably can.
I force myself to breathe in deeply, to stay calm, to focus only on what I can see before me.  The luminescent green lens on my SRS99D-S2 AM sniper rifle is like a third eye to me, complementing my own sight with the ability to peer through the dark like some kind of great cat hunting its prey.
That same, shimmering crescent shines onto the waves of the lake about 500 meters ahead of me, and beyond that, I can see my quarry, huddled amongst the plasma turrets protecting the Covenant encampment.  The hunter's hulking carapace seems to give off an aura of power as it lumbers toward the beach to talk to its brother.  As it speaks in its low, guttural voice, I notice the spines on its back rise a little and it raises its head, searching for me.  It has been aware of my presence for quite some time, but has not been able to spot me.  My heart stops for a moment as its gaze lingers in my direction, even though I know it cannot see me.  It scans farther along the mountainside, and I breathe freely again.  
       Like any good sniper, patience is one of my great virtues.  I will not give away my position until a shot is presented to me.
       And, finally, it is.
       For just a split second, I catch a glimpse of the vibrant orange flesh that is exposed between the plates of armor on the titan's back.  But it is enough.  My finger squeezes the trigger, the stock kicks into my shoulder, and the shell discharges with a loud BANG.  And, all of a sudden, things begin to happen.
The round tears through the hunter's hide with a spray of orange blood.  Like a giant tree, the beast crashes to the earth with resounding thud.  It takes a moment for its brother to realize what has happened, and in that second, I fire another bullet at him.  The wind takes it high by centimeters and it ricochets off of the steel plate and zings away.  With a roar of fury and anguish, the second hunter burns a dark scar into the cliff face with its fuel rod cannon.  My armor registers the sudden jump in radiation as the stream of green destruction passes mere feet below my hiding place.
By now, our little skirmish has been noticed, not only by the Shade plasma turrets flanking the creature from either side, but also by the teeming horde of Covenant that was previously asleep just a small distance away from the first hunter's corpse.  The brute chieftain's personal guard steps from the construct first, and I quickly put a shell into each of their skulls.  As they crumple to the ground, a small zip comes from a drop ship to their left, and my shields sputter and die as the concentrated energy blast from the beam rifle makes contact.  My own rifle is abandoned as I dive backwards away from the small opening to avoid the second shot.  If my blood was not so full of adrenaline, the follow up blast from the hunter's fuel rod would have made me scream as it melted some of my shoulder armor onto my flesh.  As it is, my only thought is survival.  I quickly detach the battle rifle that is magnetized to my back and duck out of my sniper nest.
In that moon's glorious light, I see that the cavalry has arrived.  My radio crackles to life.
"This is Fire Team Tango, requesting permission to engage."
"Roger that, Tango," says Commander Reynolds. "Go get 'em boys!"
A thick, Russian accent filters through the already noisy radio network.  "Spartan 207 here with Vehicle Battalion Bravo.  Contact has been made.  We have Scorps in position above the encampment on the eastern hilltop.  Warthogs have advanced into the warzone."
"Affirmative, Sledge."
"Hornets 14 through 33 are ready to bring the rain, sir."
"Fire at will.  Be aware of friendly troops on the ground."
"YEEEEHAW!"
I sprint toward the battle at top speed.  I can hear the screams of dying grunts and jackals and marines.  I can see the flashes of blue as plasma grenades discharge and the golden bursts and turquoise bolts of various weapons.  I gain speed with each stride, lower my shoulder, and tackle one of the shades, knocking it off of its pedestal and into the grav lift of a sniper tower.  Its weight brings the tower, and the three jackals within it, crashing to the ground.  Rounding a corner, I neatly place a round in the skulls of two more jackals and a grunt, and bring the butt of my rifle down hard on top of a dying brute's head, ending his existence.  To my left I see a plasma turret raining hell down on a group of marines.  I prime a grenade, and, like the pitchers of ancient baseball, wind up and throw.  It lands neatly beside the brute manning the turret.  He doesn't even notice it before he is blown apart.
The moonlight gleams off of a deep purple carapace as it rises into the air to meet the coming hornets.  Not even two seconds later, someone's voice screams over the radio.
"We've got banshees in the air!  Repeat, multiple contacts!"
The radio devolves into static as a stream of superheated plasma shreds the hornet's wing.  As the craft spirals out of control, the pilot expertly maneuvers it into one of the banshees, and the two of them explode in a shower of blue and white fire.
I catch an eye peering at me from one side, and I turn to see who it is.  My gut clenches in fear as the hulking form of the Chieftain emerges from the shadows, his lips pulled back in a bloodthirsty grin.  An aura of absolute power and leadership radiates from him.  Human skulls hang from his belt, war paint and tattoos symbolizing the hundreds this veteran has killed cover any area that his armor does not.  
       The armor itself tells a story: it is gold and red plated, customized to suit the alien's style.  Blood has been painted on it in various places, like some kind of macabre calligraphy.  However, though the armor is beautiful and obviously significant, it is also dented and scarred, pocked by bullet holes, a testament to many battles won.  
       Along with the human skulls, many other items hang about the creature's belt.  Two spike grenades glint wickedly in the light.  A furred hand, probably from a pack rival, swings about from a string of teeth.  Two extra clips of nails for the chieftain's sidearm, a spiker rifle, hang loosely next to the actual weapon.
Then I saw it.  Clutched in his hands is a bloodied gravity hammer, a "ceremonial" weapon that can kill me with a single blow.
I raise my battle rifle and fire an entire clip into the top of his head as he runs at me, crushing marines and Covenant alike in his rage.  The rounds zip off into different directions as they make contact with his helmet, and I realize my weapon is useless.
The creature is upon me.  With a roar of fury, he swings the massive bludgeon down toward my head.  At the last moment, I dive to the left, but the energy blast as the powerful weapon hits the ground throws me back even farther.  I throw a grenade at his feet, but with a quick flick of the hammer, it is deflected back towards me.   My shields give out from my own grenade, and I realize that without some decisive, unexpected move, I am going to die.  I roll beneath the Chieftain's feet as he prepares to swing again, burying my knife into his leg, but to no effect.  The creature continues to attack me as though nothing happened.
I see a small blue orb lying just underneath the outstretched hand of a dead grunt, and I realize that it is probably my only way out of this mess.  I sprint over, grab the plasma, prime it, and toss it with deadly precision at the Chieftain.  It sticks to his chest, and with a blue flash, I think it is over.  The hammer shatters, and the crumpled heap of gold armor and burnt fur does not move.
I wait a moment to catch my breath, walk over to the prone mass on the ground, and reach down to relieve it of its weapons.
A spike of red hot metal pierces my arm as the Chieftain fires his sidearm up at me from where he lays.  I recoil in pain and shock, and in that moment, the brute staggers to his feet, half of his face missing, his chest torn open, but still as mean as ever.
He screams with hatred in his eyes and he's upon me and he's slashing at my armor and tearing it apart like its nothing.  I'm on the ground.  This is the end.  I'm going to die.
No.  The thought hits me like a gun shot.  With defiance screaming out of every fiber of my being, I bring my feet to his chest and kick him off of me.  In seconds, the roles are reversed, and I'm upon him.  With a swift punch to the face with every ounce of strength I have, he is knocked out cold.  I grab his huge furry head in my hands, twist, and hear his thick neck snap.  It is done.
I get to my feet very slowly.  Bloody, tired, bruised, and scarred, but not beaten.  Never beaten.  With one last look at the corpse at my feet, I pick up my rifle and walk back into the fray.
I am alive.  I am a Spartan.  I am Spartan-349, Spectre.  This is my fight.