"Fraid I can't, Canada. Say, them eyes a' yers are pretty fancy, right? Could ya help me look fer survivors?", Harry said as he clunked over to a nearby house and took a look around. Dusty furniture and dirty clothes lying around, left behind in the evacuation. He shuffled around, looking for signs of life when he realized one of his feet had caught on a rug, pulling it loose and revealing a trapdoor that must've led to the cellar.
He lifted the heavy wooden door, only to be met with an "[b]ALLAHU ACKBAR[/b]" and the sharp [i]PLING[/i] of small arms fire ricocheting off his chestplate.
"Found a survivor!", he shouted, "And he's uh- he's shooting at me and yelling something in his sand language."
Another two shots bounced off his armor, followed shortly by the magazine and the gun itself.
"Ah, nevermind, he's run dry. Should I haul 'im out?"