Perrot shook his head, looking into the shattered plate-glass window of the Cafe. He'd been back for 2 days - 2 days! - and he'd already seen the Cafe ruined, in some way.
He placed a hand at his side, keeping it close to the hilt attached to his uniform, as he began to walk in. Wood was splintered everywhere, most from the torn-away bindings of the window. As he got farther in, he noticed the waitstaff - as well as a few disgruntled customers - scattered behind the service bars, looking around confusedly.
Through the dim lighting afforded by the Cafe's lights, he made out the silhouette of a figure, holding what appeared to be a very, very beaten-up bar stool, in one hand, and a smoking sidearm in the other. A few feet away, a body laid limp.
Drawing his saber, he called out.
"You, mon ami, have five seconds to explain who you are, why you're here, and why the hell you just wrecked the damn Cafe for the hundredth time."