CHAPTER 187: PROTEST

September 27, 2029

Metro Manila – Early Morning

6:10 AM

The backlash started quietly—like most storms in the Philippines do—first as noise on Facebook, then a few angry TikTok videos, then a sudden spike in hashtags that didn’t come from ordinary commuters.

By 6 AM, the LTFRB hotline had collapsed.

By 6:05 AM, three transport groups had issued formal statements.

By 6:10 AM, every media outlet from DZBB to ANC was running the same headline:

"Transport Groups Slam TG Motors’ Electric Bus Plan: ’This Will Kill Drivers’ Livelihoods’"

And by 6:15 AM, Hana was already knocking on Timothy’s condo door at One Serendra, hair still uncombed, tablet under her arm, coffee on the verge of spilling.

He opened the door.

She didn’t greet him.

"They’re mobilizing," she said.

Timothy stepped aside. "Come in."

She walked straight to the dining table and dropped the tablet. Notifications flooded the screen—red, yellow, scrolling, updating every second.

#StopEVBus

#ProtectOurDrivers

#NoToPrivatizedTransport

#HandsOffOurRoutes

"LTFRB leaked?" Timothy asked.

"Probably a staffer," Hana said. "Or the cities talked. Someone talked. Doesn’t matter who—it’s out."

He scrolled through the headlines.

’Jeepney Alliances Warn of Mass Protest if Bus Modernization Pushes Through’

’Driver Groups Say TG Motors Threatens 800,000 Jobs’

’Union Leaders: Why Is a Billionaire Replacing Us?’

’Electric Buses Are Anti-Poor — Transport Groups Declare’

The last one made Timothy’s jaw tighten.

Anti-poor?

Replacing chaos with structure was anti-poor?

Hana kept scrolling.

"Sir," she said softly, "this isn’t random noise. Someone’s coordinating this."

He nodded.

He knew exactly who.

The old transport operators. The middlemen who collected boundary fees daily. Those who profited from disorder. Those who hid behind the drivers while pocketing the real money. Chaos was profitable for them. Predictability was a threat.

But still—he expected resistance.

He just didn’t expect it to explode overnight.

Hana placed a cup of coffee in front of him.

"Media wants you on air," she said. "Two stations invited you already. Five more want statements."

"No."

She blinked. "No, sir?"

"No interviews. Not while the anger is raw."

"Then what’s the plan?"

Timothy stared at the headlines again. The room stayed quiet for a long moment.

"We move," he said. "Not online. On the ground."

8:25 AM – EDSA, Quezon Avenue

Traffic was worse than usual.

Not because of volume—because of people.

Hundreds of jeepneys lined the southbound bus lane, hazard lights blinking. Drivers held placards. Some were printed, most handwritten.

"No to TG Electric Bus!"

"Drivers Are Not Disposable!"

"Stop Modernization Killings!"

There were no TG buses yet. No changes yet. No implementation. Nothing had been taken away.

But fear didn’t need facts.

Fear only needed a spark.

TV crews lined the sidewalk. Reporters crowded the protest line. Drivers shouted into microphones, repeating the same talking points:

"Pag dumating ang electric bus, paano na kami?"

"Paano kami kakain?"

"Hindi kami kalaban, pero huwag kami palitan!"

Overhead, a helicopter circled.

Hana and Timothy watched from the car parked a few meters away. The police had cordoned the area, not intervening, just ensuring no one attacked the press or blocked an ambulance.

Hana exhaled slowly.

"Sir... this is going to spread."

"It already has," Timothy said.

In Mandaluyong, drivers formed another barricade near Boni. In Makati, a convoy of jeepneys moved slowly down Buendia. In Pasig, a march was forming near the Kapitolyo junction.

Three hours.

Three hours since the leak.

That was all it took.

9:40 AM – Mandaluyong City Hall

The city administrator met Timothy in his office, tension visible in his shoulders.

"We support the pilot," he said, "but we can’t trigger a citywide strike."

"You won’t," Timothy said. "This isn’t your fight."

"But they’re making it ours," the administrator said. "They’re saying Mandaluyong is selling out to private corporations."

Hana frowned. "We’re not replacing jeepneys."

"I know," the administrator said. "But they don’t care. They only know what they were told."

"Someone’s funding this," Timothy said. "Drivers don’t mobilize this fast without coordination."

The administrator didn’t argue.

He knew the industry. He knew the power dynamics.

"Just... stay low for a day," he said. "Let things cool."

Timothy nodded, shook his hand, and left.

Outside, Hana looked at him sideways.

"You’re not staying low," she said.

"No."

11:25 AM – TG Tower, Executive Floor

The elevators opened to chaos.

Staff crowded hallways, phones ringing nonstop. PR teams talked loudly into headsets. The legal department was drafting statements. TG Motors engineers were clustered around Carlos, reading updates on a wall-mounted screen.

When Timothy stepped out, the noise softened—but only briefly.

Carlos approached him, eyes tired but steady.

"So," Carlos said. "They declared war."

Timothy nodded.

"How bad?" Carlos asked.

"Bad," Hana said. "They think we’re replacing them next week."

Carlos rubbed his face. "Jesus Christ... We haven’t even built the first bus."

Timothy looked around the room.

People were tense.

Not afraid—just bracing.

Hana handed Carlos the tablet.

"Look at this," she said.

Carlos scrolled.

His face changed.

Not fear.

Anger.

"They’re lying," he said. "We never said anything about phasing out drivers."

"They don’t need truth," Timothy said. "They need something to fight."

"What do we do?" Carlos asked.

Timothy didn’t answer immediately. He walked toward the window—the city spread out below, traffic crawling, horns blaring, buses belching black smoke.

He spoke without turning around.

"We let them protest."

Carlos blinked. "Sir?"

"Let them protest," Timothy repeated. "Let them scream. Let them call us the enemy."

Hana stepped forward. "Tim... this could blow up. Politicians will pile on. Media will ask for your head."

"I know," he said.

Carlos frowned. "Then what’s the strategy?"

Timothy finally turned around.

"Simple," he said. "We don’t fight fear with announcements. We fight it with reality."

The room fell silent.

"What reality?" Carlos asked slowly.

Timothy walked to the table, pulled out a folder, and placed it down.

Inside were route diagrams. Maintenance schedules. Driver training modules.

No one except Hana and Carlos had seen these.

He tapped the first page.

"We involve the drivers," he said. "Not the operators. The drivers."

Carlos’s eyes widened.

"Training programs?" he asked.

"Yes," Timothy said. "Certification, upskilling, guaranteed slots for EV bus operations."

Hana nodded. "We position the buses as new jobs—not lost ones."

"And we let the cities announce it," Timothy said. "Not us. If it comes from us, it looks like bribery. But if it comes from the mayors—it becomes public service."

PR lead whispered to her team.

Carlos smiled faintly. "That’s... actually good."

Timothy continued.

"And when the first bus rolls out, clean, quiet, and with drivers at the wheel, the narrative shifts."

He picked up the folder again.

"We don’t match noise with noise," he said. "We match noise with structure."

The room felt calmer. Focused.

"But," Hana added carefully, "there’s still the political side. Senators are already tweeting."

Timothy rolled his neck slightly, loosening tension.

"Then we schedule meetings," he said. "One senator at a time. In their offices. No cameras."

Carlos leaned back.

"You’re going to negotiate with the whole country."

Timothy didn’t smirk, didn’t sigh, didn’t show frustration.

He just said:

"If we want to fix Metro Manila... this is the price."

3:50 PM – EDSA, Cubao

The protest swelled.

Drums. Megaphones. Flags. Media trucks. Traffic built until the highway looked like a frozen river of metal.

A driver shouted into a microphone:

"Mga kapatid! Hindi tayo papayag na palitan nila tayo ng makina!"

Cheers erupted.

A reporter thrust a mic toward a union leader.

"Sir, what message do you want to send to TG Motors?"

The leader glared at the camera.

"Simple," he said. "Do not challenge the drivers. Because without the drivers—this country does not move!"

A dramatic line.

Crowd ate it up.

But somewhere behind the noise, a different sentiment simmered.

A few drivers stood away from the crowd, arms crossed, listening but not shouting.

One muttered to another:

"They’re saying electric buses... are we even trained for that?"

"My kid told me they’re quieter. Cooler inside, too."

"And what if the job ends up better? Right?"

Quiet doubts.

Not enough to break the protest.

But enough to show a crack.

8:10 PM – Timothy’s Condo

Hana sat on the couch, reviewing the day’s damage. Timothy leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping water.

"No one died," Hana said. "No one threw rocks. No violence."

"That’s good," Timothy said.

"You expected violence?"

"It’s Metro Manila," he said. "I expect everything."

She exhaled.

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"Manila City Hall," Timothy said. "Then Caloocan. Then the Senate."

She sank into the cushion.

"This is going to be a long fight."

He nodded.

"It’s worth it."

9:12 PM – Outside, BGC

The city lights flickered softly.

Traffic hadn’t improved.

Nothing had changed yet.

But inside one corner of the skyline, on the 21st floor of TG Tower, the blueprint for Metro Manila’s future was already being drafted—not by politicians, not by committees, not by lobbyists.

By a man who understood one thing:

You don’t change a broken system by asking permission.

You change it by building the alternative—and letting reality do the rest.