The Agila once published an article stating that the more experience one has in their practice, the less nervous they are when faced with work dilemmas—Atty. Magbanua had never ended a newsletter subscription more quickly in his life.

The buzzing crowd and constant mic checks did nothing to calm the tremor in his hands as he stood in the wings of the glowing stage, his eyes boring through each of the five podiums atop it.

“Good evening everyone! The 2022 Presidential Debate will begin in 40 minutes.”

Deep breaths were no help to him either. Inhaling the stinging scent of tobacco was enough to signify the presence of short-statured Senator Castro and his team backstage. In no lighter spirits, the lawyer cleaned his glasses for the third time in a minute.

“Less nervous!” he scoffed. “The Agila ought to hire actual journalists.”

Magbanua had yet to put his glasses back on before fellow candidate Atty. Salazar entered the space in her famous white sneakers, a stark contrast to the quick clicking of heels that trailed behind her.

“Breaking the dress code is not an option!” puffed the stilettoed assistant, clutching onto a more forgivable pair of black heels.

“Well, it’s been excessively done before, hasn’t it?” the young attorney spat out in return.

A familiar laugh from the wings of the stage caught her attention. Wanting nothing more than to escape additional scolding, she hurried to Magbanua’s side.

“Attempting to appeal to the youth?” asked the elder lawyer when she stood by him.

“Choosing not to subject oneself to physical suffering does not seem to be the prime assumption.” Salazar eyed her choice of footwear proudly. Her companion reached to clean his glasses once more, exposing his quivering hands to her. “Nervous? You know, I read an article in The Agila the other day that the more experience one has-”

The lawyers winced as the sharpest of mic feedback cut through the venue, throwing little Senator Castro in an alarming coughing fit.

“Nothing makes me more nervous than seeing Castro on the brink of a stroke.” Magbanua remarked, watching the senator’s team attempt to appease his hacking.

Salazar shook her head. “I fear he would not reach a year in office.”

“Or his podium either.”

“Truly immature.”

“Hearing that from you lessens the impact.” he replied, nodding at her feet.

“The event will begin in 30 minutes!”

Before the attorney could reach his glasses once more, his companion’s less-than-subtle attempts to steady her breathing relieved him. He was not alone. Wishing for a distraction, he took his cue from the woman in a floral number who had just entered the backstage.

“Not much of a competition if you ask me,” he jested.

Salazar followed his gaze to their fellow candidate. Heavily powdered, the woman of 60 was quite a presence. “Are you saying Congresswoman Flores is not a threat?”

“With the COMELEC in her Hermès, she could be.”

Five minutes burned away before the thunderous laugh of Senator Santos filled the backstage. Salazar’s shoulders tensed, her blood running cold. The Agila had recently been so kind as to accept a certain candidate’s tip to feature the young woman’s photographed disgust towards Santos.

The staff backstage received only the kindest of words from the senator, his spectacle falling short of devotees requesting him to bless their children. Flores was generous enough to afford him a powdered nod. Castro only lit another cigarette.

Santos could not resist shooting Salazar his prize-winning smile as he continued his rounds by the wings. “I must admit, Elaine. The Agila did a fantastic job with that photo of yours.”

“I am eternally grateful to them,” she hissed.

Stone-faced Magbanua, on the other hand, was more than relieved by Santos’ failure to greet him at all before he left them.

With narrowed eyes, Salazar watched the senator go. “Well, none of us ever really had sportsmanship in our pockets.” Receiving no reply, she found Magbanua staring at the stage before them, the spotlights shining upon the frenzied audience. Filipinos decked in different colors laid beyond the cameras, each an ode to their candidate of choice. Salazar’s teeth clenched at the generous sight of Santos’ signature blue.

“It appears that everyone has forgotten the 2010 case.”

“Or was paid to forget,” Magbanua answered coldy.

“It doesn’t matter. You and Tita Cecilia exposed the lot of them. There is still credit in that.”

“Yet hidden wealth and pork barrels still keep you in the race, apparently.”

“The 2022 Presidential Debate will begin in a few minutes!”

The sudden clicking of heels behind them issued a groan from the young lawyer. Before being bombarded with last minute meetings and more scolding on footwear, she turned to her companion. “Still nervous?”

Magbanua adjusted his glasses with steady hands. “Knowing that I’ll be debating against my own anak? Of course, I am.”

Salazar gave her father the warmest of smiles before leaving him in the wings. He watched the giant screen above the stage flash the candidates’ names before the entire country: Castro. Flores. Magbanua. Magbanua-Salazar. Santos.

He could not have been more nervous.