September 7 (Saturday)
2:16 AM
Pasig City Market
The distinct scent of dried grains, fresh vegetables, and damp concrete hung heavily in the air. The endless noise of delivery trucks and haggling midnight buyers was finally beginning to fade into the background for Mona Patori.
Her shift was over.
The owner of the 24/7 market stall walked over, wiping his hands on a rag, and unzipped his belt bag to pull out a few folded bills. He handed them directly to her.
"Here. Good work tonight," the owner said.
Mona took the money, her fingers brushing against the slightly damp paper. She quickly counted it. Six hundred pesos. The exact, calculated value of her physical exhaustion, traded for hours of standing, lifting, and staying awake while the rest of the world slept.
"Okay po, thank you po," Mona nodded politely, offering a tired but genuine smile. "I will go ahead na po ah."
She slipped the P600 securely into her sling bag. There was no time to linger. Her body was screaming for rest, but her mind was already calculating the logistics of the next few hours.
The commute back to Taytay in the early morning darkness was a grueling two-part journey. She endured the long, humid jeepney ride traversing the stretch of the Manggahan Floodway, followed by a bumpy tricycle trip through the waking town. Mona leaned her head against the metal rails of her rides, closing eyes just long enough to escape the noise, but never long enough to fall into a deep sleep. Survival meant staying vigilant.
She finally arrived at her sister's neighborhood. She navigated the tight, messy alleys of the dense community, stepping carefully over the uneven pavement until she reached their door. The place was quiet.
Mona quietly unlocked the door and stepped inside, careful not to let the hinges creak. There were no hallways here; the entrance opened directly into a cramped, combined kitchen and small living room. She set her bag down and walked softly up the narrow, creaky stairs to the second floor.
The upper floor was extremely tight, consisting of only two small rooms. Actually, three sisters lived under this same roof. Mona paused outside the first closed bedroom door. Inside was their middle sister—who was single and diagnosed with a severe mental condition. She rarely left the confines of that room. With the older sister's husband constantly out working to provide for the family's basic needs and medical expenses, the heavy burden of watching over the house, taking care of the children, and checking on their sick sister naturally fell onto Mona's shoulders.
Mona gently pushed the door open just a fraction of an inch, peeking into the dim room to ensure her middle sister was resting safely. Seeing the steady rise and fall of the blanket, Mona quietly pulled the door shut.
She then walked to the second bedroom. This room belonged to her married older sister, the husband, and their young children. Because space was an absolute luxury, Mona shared this exact room with them. She navigated to her own small corner of the cramped space, practically collapsing onto her bed. She checked the time on her phone.
3:03 AM.
She set her alarm. She didn't have the luxury of a full night's rest.
Ay, I just need a few hours of sleep eh, Mona reasoned in her internal monologue, forcing her eyes shut. I have to wake up early.
5:30 AM
The alarm vibrated violently against the table.
Mona's eyes snapped open. Her entire body ached, a deep, pulling soreness in her calves and lower back from the market shift. But the academic schedule demanded her immediate attention. The Saturday marathon was waiting.
She forced herself out of bed. There was no time to complain about the exhaustion. She moved straight down to the kitchen, immediately washing the rice and setting the pot on the stove. She began cooking breakfast for her sisters, her nieces, and nephews, moving with the rapid, practiced efficiency of someone who had entirely memorized her morning chores. The menu was a survival classic: frying dried fish (tuyo), hotdogs, and eggs, while a kettle boiled water for their instant coffee.
While the food was cooking, she quickly took a bath, the cold water forcefully waking up whatever remaining brain cells were still trying to sleep.
By 6:45 AM, the household was fed, the chores were paused, and Mona was ready to transition into a college student.
She didn't have a comfortable mattress setup or a high-end desktop computer. Her academic battleground was the small kitchen table.
She pulled out a simple plastic monobloc chair and dragged it right beside the kitchen window. This specific coordinate was chosen with absolute, tactical precision. First, the natural morning light from the window provided the best possible illumination for her phone's camera, just in case their professor suddenly demanded an open-camera attendance. Second, and most importantly, hovering near the glass panes was the only way her phone could catch a consistently strong mobile data signal.
A single bar of 4G dropping to 3G mid-lecture was a fatal error she couldn't afford.
Mona placed her smartphone against a glass cup to prop it up. She laid out her physical inventory on the table: a worn-out notebook and a black ballpoint pen. Finally, she unraveled her wired earphones and plugged them in, sealing herself off from the surrounding noise of the house.
She stared at the screen, watching the time tick closer to 7:00 AM.
At exactly 6:59 AM, a notification pinged. Mr. Shono had sent the Google Meet link to the FIL 1 / ART 1 BEEd 1-A 24-25 group chat. Mona quickly tapped the link, joining the digital fray alongside the rest of the BEEd 1-A cohort.
Around 7:04 AM, the audio crackled to life. Mr. Shono kept his camera off, his voice echoing through the phone speakers.
"So, alright. Uh. Good morning again, BEEd 1," Mr. Shono greeted, his tone completely casual. "So the reporters should prepare and screenshare their presentation now, as well as, uhm... we will accommodate up to three sets of reporters today in Filipino."
The Google Meet interface instantly exploded. A massive wave of shocked faces, crying emojis, and a few desperate hearts flooded the screen. Three groups in one sitting? It was absolute chaos for a Saturday morning session.
He ignored the digital panic and continued smoothly. "So, for the two reporters, you should also be ready. Okay, uh, who is the reporter today, and what topic?"
Somewhere out on the chaotic morning streets, the Vice President was battling her own logistical nightmare. Princess Cleria was currently vibrating inside a moving tricycle. Thanks to the delayed, fragmented communication of the university's announcements, she had traveled all the way from Talim Island to the Taytay mainland, falsely assuming there were face-to-face classes on Saturday. Realizing her massive error too late, she was now desperately heading back to the Binangonan port.
Princess held her phone tightly to her ear, fighting the roar of the tricycle engine and the wind whipping against her face. She tapped the screen, raising her digital hand.
"Uh, yes, Princess?" Mr. Shono asked.
"Good morning po, Sir," Princess spoke loudly over the ambient noise. "I am still on the way to the island eh. So maybe we will start next time... I am commuting po eh."
Mr. Shono paused, processing the chaotic background audio. "Okay," he acknowledged smoothly. "Uh, kindly stay safe. We will ask for another set of reporters then. Who wants to volunteer?"
For a moment, there was digital silence. Then, a hand icon popped up.
Zherel Diman unmuted her microphone.
"Uh, good morning po, Sir!"
The audio suddenly peaked. Zherel was stationed at her desktop computer at home, fully equipped with a heavy gaming headset, but her microphone gain was cranked to the absolute maximum. The sudden, booming volume shocked the entire digital room, forcing Jiro and half the class to instantly yank their earphones away from their eardrums.
"So, uh, we will just be the ones to report for today," Zherel announced loudly, her voice completely dominating the frequency. "Is that okay po, Sir?"
"Okay. Noted," Mr. Shono replied, recovering from the acoustic shock. "Uhm, kindly prepare your presentation, and before we start, kindly check our attendance first, okay? So are you here, Agane Alpha?"
The mandated ritual commenced. Mr. Shono systematically called out the roster, pressing 'P' or 'A' on his laptop keyboard to update the masterlist Excel sheet.
Once the roll call concluded, the reporting session officially commenced.
While Princess was now crammed inside a noisy jeepney with a driver blasting loud music on her way to the port, Zherel Diman initiated the screen share. The bold title flashed across everyone's screens: Diskurso sa Lokal na Konteksto (Discourse in Local Contexts).
Zherel led the charge. She introduced her co-reporters—Tiffany Diez, Rechele Eve, and Ivyn Giron—with absolute, booming confidence.
Ivyn Giron took the floor next. She was navigating a completely different kind of domestic chaos. Stationed at home alone, she held her phone with one hand, her wired earphones dangling, while her other hand actively managed her sister's toddler twins who were energetically running circles around her. Despite the visual and physical multitasking, her delivery was surprisingly stable.
Rechele Eve followed up smoothly, and finally, Tiffany Diez anchored the presentation.
It was a profound display of academic competence. The presentation transitioned flawlessly from one slide to the next, the vocal deliveries were smooth, and the group effortlessly carried the weight of the academic discourse.
During the presentation, active discussions took over the call. Both Zherel and Mr. Shono threw questions to keep the engagement alive.
On the digital frontline, the most active students instantly took charge of the recitation. Reo Bairo, Cristel Basha, Anila Bakuda, Gracie Masado, and Jiro Sanata raised their hands, delivering analytical, high-quality answers to secure their participation scores.
Lindsey Soliko, however, was completely absent from the academic crossfire. She had literally fallen asleep in her bed, blissfully missing the entire recitation phase.
Meanwhile, when the reporters called out for students to read the slides, those who dreaded public speaking executed a different strategy. Windy Viyago, Jesper Arufe, Cicille Masha, and Deanne Parina raised their hands to read the plain bullet points, successfully bypassing the difficult questions while still registering their presence.
And then, the institutional infrastructure struck.
Just as they concluded their final points, a 15-minute countdown warning flashed. It was the notorious Google Meet time bomb. Because Mr. Shono was utilizing a standard, free-tier account rather than a premium institutional subscription, the digital room was strictly capped at sixty minutes.
Realizing the impending disconnection, Mr. Shono interrupted the flow.
"Okay, I cannot accommodate up to three groups for today," he announced quickly, revising the syllabus on the fly. "So the next groups, just prepare for our next meeting ah."
He then directed the current reporters to drop their final requirement before the room collapsed. Zherel and her team had paced their delivery perfectly. They clutched the finish line just in time, assigning the class to create a written speech discourse adaptable to any given situation.
"Alright, leave the meeting and do the activity now," Mr. Shono instructed.
At exactly 9:00 AM, the Google Meet disbanded. A minute later, Mr. Shono dropped a Google Drive link into their respective group chat, cementing the strict bureaucratic parameters of the task.
He announced that he would only accept submissions until exactly 12:00 NN. The files had to follow a rigid naming convention: SURNAME_NAME_OUTPUT#3. Any deviation would likely result in an automatic rejection, and the files were restricted to jpeg, pdf, and word formats only.
With the morning class abruptly transitioned into an asynchronous task, Mr. Shono gave them an hour to work. They were mandated to rejoin a new Google Meet link at exactly 10:00 AM for their ART 1 class.
Across the scattered map, the students immediately got to work.
Back in her kitchen, Mona Patori stared at her blank yellow pad. Her physical exhaustion was heavy, but her mind required efficiency. She needed a speech, and she needed it fast.
She tapped open her browser. She thoughtfully drafted the core concepts of her speech, structured her ideas, and then directly prompted them into an AI text generator to polish the grammar and flow. Once the clean, refined text generated on her screen, she picked up her pen and manually transcribed the AI-assisted speech onto her yellow paper. It was the perfect fusion of traditional labor and modern technological survival.
By 10:12 AM, the break was officially over. Mr. Jeypi Shono dropped the new Google Meet link into the chat.
The cohort filed back into the digital waiting room for ART 1. As usual, the administrative ritual of the attendance check was executed first.
"Okay," Mr. Shono said, his voice crackling through the speakers. "Who are the reporters now?"
Sayra Bresa's group took the floor. Their topic was Functions and Philosophical Perspective on Art.
Sayra presented their slides, but the execution was anything but seamless. Stationed in her bedroom, Sayra was actively battling her mischievous toddler, who kept crying and pulling at her blanket. Because she was holding her child with one hand and trying to manage her laptop with the other, the presentation was frequently delayed, with Sayra struggling to click to the next slide while trying to present her parts over the noise.
When it was Aprille Bolente's turn to deliver her section, the infrastructure of Talim Island struck.
Stationed in her breezy bamboo hangout hut right beside the lake, Aprille was actively fighting the loud, rushing sound of the morning wind hitting her device's microphone. She didn't have earphones equipped, and she had to multitask by holding a second phone in her other hand just to read her script and notes. Her internet connection was heavily unstable. Her voice kept glitching. It would suddenly stop, transition into a robotic lag, speed up aggressively to catch up with the stream, and then her profile would drop out of the meeting entirely. After a few seconds, she would rejoin and attempt to clear her parts again.
Jayter Celda smoothly followed up, delivering his part right after Aprille and Sayra had cleared theirs, bringing some stable progress to their group's overall performance. Despite the technical errors, the toddler chaos, and the lake winds, they managed to complete their presentation well.
At the end of the lecture, they administered a quiz. Since the session was online, everyone had to write their answers on their own yellow papers, ready to be scanned and uploaded to the Google Drive. The recitations kicked off once again, and Jiro, Reo, Cristel, Gracie, and Anila dominated the audio channels.
To close out the class, Mr. Shono dropped the final activity of the day: create an artistic output—whether a drawing, a poem, or any medium of art—and upload it before a strict 6:00 PM deadline.
At exactly 12:10 PM, the class formally concluded.
Shortly after disconnecting, the Commander dropped a set of strict, administrative deadlines into the main group chat.
Hidy Medona: "Guys, please remember ah. I will only accept the proposal letters for your individualized LTS in NSTP before Monday, 6:00 AM sharp po."
She followed up with the recurring weekly mechanics, clarifying that both their weekly tutoring documentation (including photos and reflection letters) and the donation drive contributions must be completed once a week, with all documentations, pictures, and items submitted every Monday before 6:00 AM sharp for LTS and 8:00 PM sharp for donation drive.
Hidy Medona: "And you need to do both of our NSTP activities—tutoring and donations—once a week. Submit the documentation letters, reflections, and pictures every Monday until 6 AM sharp po for our LTS and 8 PM po for Donation Drive through our Google Drive link ah! Also, do not forget to bring any weekly donations on Monday po!"
Before they could completely process the heavy administrative load, another notification lit up their phones. Mr. Edwardo Casto had dropped a message in the PE 1 group chat.
Mr. Edwardo Casto: "Good day @everyone, no class today, just practice your TABATA workout activity and present it by next meeting."
A flood of heart reactions instantly filled the chat. An unexpected weekend reprieve.
6:15 PM
The evening had arrived, and Jiro was finally forced to initiate his individual NSTP LTS documentation.
He walked around his neighborhood, eventually finding his four-year-old niece. As per Dr. Manazaki's strict parameters, each student was required to tutor a child once a week, documenting the progress and securing a signed proposal letter from the parent.
Jiro presented the document, obtaining the parent's signature to finalize the weekly tutorial schedule.
However, Jiro encountered a unique anomaly. His niece was incredibly smart for her age; she could already read, write, do basic arithmetic, and speak English with fluent precision. Teaching her basic shapes or alphabet tracing would be completely redundant.
Relying on his own interests, Jiro decided to alter the syllabus. He noted in his proposal that he would teach her Basic Geography—his favorite subject. It was a highly efficient, customized lesson plan.
With his documentation secured, Jiro returned home to enjoy a peaceful Sunday rest. But the administrative machinery never fully paused.
7:00 PM
The main group chat buzzed. Hidy Medona made some noise again. Her tone read as perfectly professional but with a distinct, underlying layer of exhaustion.
Hidy Medona: "Guys, just a reminder po. I saw someone submit their work incorrectly in the LTS individual GDrive. They just dropped the proposal and documentation directly into the main folder without making their own subfolder. Please use the exact file name format: SURNAME_FIRST NAME_M.I. - LTS ah."
The cohort responded with a quick wave of heart and thumbs-up reactions, acknowledging the correction.
But to ensure no one had an excuse for formatting errors, the Commander returned an hour later.
8:14 PM
Hidy Medona: "If you are struggling to upload, here is the clear instruction ah. Copy the link first, open it on Chrome, set it to Desktop Mode, and then click New Folder. Name it properly, and then upload your files there po."
Jiro lay on his bed, looking at his perfectly organized files on his phone. His Apex Strategist mindset had already solved the clutter issue. He decided to casually drop his own structural masterpiece into the chat.
8:19 PM
Jiro Sanata: "I just did something different eh. Inside my folder, I also created another two subfolders. One for Demographics for the proposal, and one for Documentation. And then inside the Documentation folder, there are also two subfolders: one for Video or Pictures, and one for Journal."
A flawless, multi-tiered digital filing system. Maximum efficiency. Zero clutter.
Hidy was instantly impressed.
Hidy Medona: "Wow, that is so organized! Thank you, Jiro!"
She quickly relayed the new standard to the rest of the cohort.
Hidy Medona: "Guys, kindly follow what Jiro did po ah."
With the digital architecture finally resolved, the Commander officially signed off for the weekend.
Hidy Medona: "Again guys, I am not mad, I just have no energy today hehe, you can rest from this exhausting week. May your week be filled with love, blessings, and healing. Goodnight! 🤍"
Just a minute later, the Market Merchant chimed in, echoing the sentiment of the entire class.
Jachie Marello: "You should also rest pres."
The weekend was officially sealed. But the academic tide rushed back on Monday, bringing the dreaded donation drive right along with it
September 9 (Monday)
12:47 PM
While the rest of the cohort was finalizing their commutes, a rogue merchant operation was actively bypassing campus security.
Reo Bairo drove her single motorcycle scooter through the streets of Taytay, approaching the KSU gates. Resting between her feet on the floorboard of the scooter was a massive, heavy plastic bag filled with the newest batch of ordered PE pants. To avoid raising any suspicion from the strict campus guards regarding outside merchandise, she had cleverly draped a thick floor mat over the plastic bag, successfully disguising the contraband.
She parked the scooter and smoothly bypassed the checkpoint.
Reo Bairo: "I am here in the campus na po. For those who haven't claimed their PE pants last week, you can get them now ah."
1:39 PM
Room 406
The weather was relatively mild—cloudy and overcast with no rain, though the high humidity was thick, broken only by scattered sunrays piercing the clouds.
The physical gates of KSU Taytay were open once again. The BEEd 1-A cohort filed back into their official classroom, carrying several noticeable eco-bags stuffed with old clothes and canned goods for the USO donation drive.
At the front of the room, clustered around the teacher's table, was a loud, energetic circle: Cristel Basha, Rechele Eve, Nica Rosa, Tiffany Diez, and Mekayla Sano. They were gossiping as usual, trading weekend stories while waiting for their friend, Zherel Diman. They were remarkably loud, and Cristel Basha was fully dominating the conversation, laughing so hard she frequently slammed her palm against the wooden table.
Whack!
Meanwhile, Jiro sat at his usual spot—the second-row aisle seat—silently conversing with his seatmate. Princess Cleria was exceptionally talkative today. She was sharing gossip, trends, and stories about her commute island struggles and her side business of doing eyelash extensions on Talim Island.
Jiro passively listened, staring blankly at his mini fan. Princess had casually borrowed it again, directing the cool breeze onto her face while Jiro sweated in his uniform. His phone was already resting on his armchair desk. Princess casually grabbed it, and they took a quick, goofy selfie together to pass the time.
In the fourth row, Jiro's Circle of Friends was fully engaged in their own discussions. Mira Palida and Niewi Voeliè were trading gossip, while Cosma Ibana shared her exhausting struggles as a working student.
To their right, the Bisaya Alliance was in full effect. Ivyn Giron, Mona Patori, and Cicille Masha were talking rapidly in Bisaya. Nobody else in the room could understand a single word, but the three of them were completely vibing, laughing, and keeping the energy high.
2:30 PM
The official start time for their Readings in Philippine History class. The room quieted down in anticipation.
But the doorway remained empty.
3:00 PM
The chatter slowly resumed. Still no professor.
The class realized what was happening. The highly anticipated Elite Educator had failed to materialize. It was another ghost professor anomaly. They were sitting in a sweltering room, waiting for an authority figure who simply wasn't coming.
The patience meter of the cohort slowly drained as the minutes ticked by. Without an official dismissal, they were trapped in the administrative void.
At exactly 3:41 PM, the breaking point was reached. The class officially dismissed itself.
As the students began standing up to leave, Group Enigma immediately took the stage to execute the assigned cleaning protocol. They grabbed the brooms and started erasing the whiteboards and blackboards, eager to finish the chore and escape the heat.
But before anyone could actually bolt for the door, a bureaucratic toll booth was established at the exit.
Lindsey Soliko marched to the front of the room, holding her pristine class fund sheet for September like a shield. She completely blocked the doorway.
"Hoy, wait guys ah!" Lindsey screamed playfully over the noise, waving her pen. "Pay your 10 pesos class fund first before you go home!"
The mandatory tax collection initiated a chaotic scramble at the front of the room.
Once the financial obligations were cleared, Hidy announced the coordinates for the final side quest of the day.
"Go to the second floor, beside the storage room," Hidy directed. "Right outside the CBA and Utility Office. There's a designated table there po. Just drop your donations there, but we need a photo for documentation ah."
Group Falcon—Niewi, Jiro, Windy, Lindsey, Mekayla, and Nica—marched down the stairs carrying their bags.
However, a logistical discrepancy was instantly detected. Only Nica, Mekayla, and Niewi had actually brought donation bags. Jiro, Windy, and Lindsey had brought absolutely nothing.
They approached the second-floor table, looking around to ensure the hallway was clear of faculty and other students.
Lindsey and Mekayla eyed the massive piles of clothes and canned foods already left on the table by other sections.
"Guys, look," Lindsey whispered with a mischievous grin. "Get these oh. We'll just hold them for the picture so it looks like we all brought something, hehe."
Mekayla laughed, immediately grabbing a bag of used clothes. Lindsey handed Jiro two packs of instant noodles, then passed two canned sardines to Windy. They arranged themselves quickly, posing with the borrowed donations as if they were the most charitable students on campus.
Jiro held the instant noodles, his face neutral, but his internal strategist was highly amused.
Just for a picture, I guess? Jiro thought, smiling slightly for the camera as Niewi snapped the photo. Work the system, or let the system work you. Bureaucratic bypass successful.
Click.
The photo was captured. They dropped the borrowed items back onto the table, grabbed their bags, and headed for the gates.
END OF THE SEAMLESS SLIDES