Riots

The fateful bottle created a parabolic arc of sparks that rapidly burnt out as it coursed through the cool Brazilian air, calling the eyes of the entire crowd to its boldness as it shattered against the phalanx of governmental authority assembled to halt the sons and daughters of liberty.

Not willing to be shown up by a mere glass bottle, the crowd surged forward and surged around the Policia, skulls and forearms and ribcages shattering accordingly in the meat grinder of flailing batons and angered curses. The poor bastard who had accepted the drink offered him in the first seconds was getting a bit hot under the collar. His shield and his discipline alike began to warp from the heat, and in a moment of violent disgust he took the plastic device from his arm and hurled it lengthwise into the crowd, catching an unsuspecting dissenter square in the mouth.

The crowd continued to undulate against the tide-wall of oppression, and soon enough a fissure bared its teeth to the faceless arm of the law. Idealists poured into the gap created by the faltering discipline of the scorched officer, who was by now shitting himself several dozen yards back, not even bothering to look behind him because he knew how much harsher the mob’s law could be than that which he served.