Upthrust fists obscured the screen. The boos grew louder. Angry voices were yelling. He heard chants of “Justice!” of “Fascist!” Anger was bubbling up now, in him, and all around him. It was surging through the crowd, an organic thing, displacing the disappointment.

Oh my god, Rangan thought.

I’ve got guys pulling up their scarves, Cheyenne sent.

I think those are Molotovs, Tempest sent, her thoughts tinged with fear. They’re filling up Molotovs. An image followed. Scarved and goggled figures at the corner of one of the stages, filling up bottles from a transparent hose off a fuel cell.

It’s going to be a riot no matter what, Rangan realized.

Through a gap in the forest of upraised arms he caught a glimpse of Chief Justice Klein, his face stern, the words “So Ordered” in subtitles below him.

Then speakers, incredibly loud, blared a message at them from floating aerostats and drones above, from the armored vehicles all around them, from who knew where else.

“THIS ILLEGAL PROTEST IS NOW OVER.

YOU ARE ORDERED TO LEAVE THE PARK IMMEDIATELY.”

The sheer volume of it shocked the crowd, cut through the anger, sent a wave of uncertainty through everything, set hands and voices to wavering, lowered the volume to a murmur.

And for just a moment, Rangan thought perhaps there wouldn’t be a riot.

Then he heard a voice cry, loud and shrill, off to his right.

“Fuck you, fascist!”

He turned, and saw it, saw the lit Molotov, arching out of the crowd, up into the blue sky, towards the line of riot police between them and the nearest building, then past them, thrown too hard, too far, to crash onto the steps of the Smithsonian Museum of National History, bursting into flame.

No, he thought. Oh fuck, no.

He braced himself for the counter-assault, the rubber bullets, the sonic cannon, the tear gas canisters.

The line of riot police held absolutely still, fire burning on the steps of the building behind them.

Sense impressions hit him, thoughts, and he turned, saw movement, chaos – no, not chaos, self-organization, as other protesters tackled the man who’d thrown the Molotov, brought him down. Their thoughts brought him images of a bandana-wearing man pinned at the bottom of a scrum, a bag full of bottles with rags stuffed in them separated from him.

We can do this, Rangan thought. We can do this.

Then the hate hit him.

Breece watched and waited from within the crowd. The memory of the fight with Kate still lingered. Could she be right? Was this a step too far? These people here… as he looked around, he saw some who wanted what he wanted. More freedom. For themselves. For Americans. For humanity.

Maybe Kate was right. Maybe they’d done enough. Maybe the cause had spread now. Maybe all these protesters could win the day.