The people in charge, including Luo, all looked at the chief director.
The bald director, with a potbelly and a vibrant yellow flower perched atop his head, noticed everyone's gaze and calmly said, "Why are you all looking at me? Looking at me won't give you a raise."
The person in charge in China, "..."
They weren't expecting a raise, since their director was notoriously stingy.
But he has one advantage: he doesn't delay paying wages and likes to give them some welfare bonuses every now and then.
For the sake of the bonus, they really don't care whether their wages increase or not.
As long as they don't lose their bonuses, that's fine.
"Director, let's not talk about salaries, let's talk about the biological research center."
Corinna smiled and said, and Director Luo immediately chimed in, "Yes, Director, what are you planning to do about the Biological Research Center asking for detailed coordinates?"
"Not really."
The director, annoyed by their questions, shook the vibrant yellow flower on his head. "No way you want the coordinates now. We'll talk about it after the show ends."
"The biological research center won't be happy about this."
Another person in charge chimed in, "They're just a bunch of research fanatics. If it were another endangered species, they probably wouldn't be so worried."
"But this time it's the Mist Fragrance Beast, which is on the extinction list. Given the nature of the people at the Biological Research Center, they won't have the patience to wait until the show ends."
"We will try every means to put pressure on the production team to get the coordinates of the desolate planet."
I thought that saying this would make the director waver, but to my surprise, he remained calm as always, said "Oh," and then said coolly, "Let them put pressure on me. If I were to compromise, I'd wait until my next life."
As he spoke, he glanced at Sang Ning, who was engrossed in digging for razor clams on the beach, then looked back at the group and said, "I think you've been on Central Star for too long and your brains have become dull."
What is the purpose of the "Survival on the Wasteland" event?
What is the core motivation behind the program?
What are our responsibilities?
The moment the three questions were posed, everyone looked dazed. They had been living such peaceful lives that they had almost forgotten why the survival show on the desolate planet even existed.
Now, suddenly reminded by the director, past memories flooded back like a tide.
call--
With a sigh of relief, everyone said seriously, "Don't worry, Director, we know what to do."
"Everyone, submit a 5,000-word self-criticism to me before you leave work. Here's the important part: no electronic versions, all handwritten. Write it in every language of every intelligent race. Do you all understand?"
I don't want to hear it, and it's impossible for me to do it.
Luo, the person in charge, was the first to protest, "Director, this is going too far. A self-criticism is fine, handwritten is fine, but to go through all the languages of every intelligent race is a big problem."
"If you really do that, I'd rather have my salary docked than write a self-criticism."
There are thousands of intelligent races, each with its own unique civilization and language, plus a common script. Goodness, let alone finishing it before the end of the workday, it would take several more days to finish.
"The workload is too large. If we follow your approach, we definitely won't be able to handle it. Don't count on it. Using only standard language is fine. You should decide for yourself."
As soon as Luo, the person in charge, finished speaking, the remaining people in charge, including the planners, joined in to protest.
The technology center instantly turned into a bustling market. The buzzing noise was so loud that the yellow flower on the director's head not only bloomed completely but also started shedding petals.
A petal drifted down from above and floated past the director's eyes.
He gasped as if he had a toothache, and quickly and decisively caught the flower petal in his hand. His eyes reddened as he looked at the petal in his hand.
Just when Manager Luo and the others thought he was going to cry, he sniffed, put the flower petals in his pocket, and said coldly, "Everyone's protesting?"
"Yes."
It concerns my own hands; I have no choice but to protest.
We must argue our case based on reason.
"Boss, can you choose another one? We really can't finish this before we leave work."
"If you can't finish it, then resign."
The director blurted out this sentence, and Manager Luo and the others immediately burst into laughter, asking with great joy if it was true.
If that's true, they'll submit their resignation letters, leave work normally tonight, and not come in tomorrow.
There's no need to write a self-criticism.
The director was heartbroken to see the joyful expressions on their faces; he knew that this loose tongue was going to cause trouble.
He shoved his hand, which was itching to slap himself, into his pocket and said coldly, "Don't even think about quitting. Don't even think about it for the rest of your life."
"You are my employees in life, and you will still be my employees in death."
"You can still write the self-criticism, but change it a bit; just handwrite it in common language."
Everyone immediately smiled with relief, but as soon as the smiles appeared, they heard the director say again, "Remember, it's five thousand words. Not a single word more or less. Exactly five thousand words."
Everyone was speechless.
To be honest, I have a really, really crude thing to say.
Owen is such a damn dog, he's not even human.
The chief director wasn't human; he was from the Huangyu tribe and had nothing to do with humans.
Therefore, he didn't care what others thought, and only asked, "Can you do it?"
"···able."
Everyone gritted their teeth and reluctantly agreed.
The director was satisfied upon hearing this, and said, "Keep a close eye on things, and contact me if anything happens."
You little punks, trying to make a fool of yourself? Watch me torment you to death.
Aren't they just those old fogies from the biological research center?
He, Owen, has lived for nearly two hundred years and has never been inferior to anyone.
"Please take care!"
"Please come down and then we'll come back!"
"Another petal has fallen from your head!"
"where?"
The director, who was striding briskly toward the main entrance, exclaimed in surprise and turned around to catch the flower petals, only to find that the huge technical center was deserted except for the technicians.
Director-General, "..."
Damn it, I got tricked by those brats.
Where are they?
He asked angrily, while the other man, with his legs crossed and not even bothering to lift his eyelids, replied lazily, "You ran away? If you hadn't, you would have scolded me."
As he spoke, he waved his hand as if shooing away flies, saying, "Director, hurry up and leave. Don't linger in our technical center. You're disturbing our sleep—no, I mean, you're affecting our work efficiency."
"puff--"
The technician next to him couldn't help but laugh. The director's face turned from black to green, then from green to black again. After a long while, he snorted, "I don't want to listen to your nonsense. Let me tell you, sleeping is one thing, but if you let sleeping interfere with your work, I will deduct your wages and bonuses."
"Have you memorized everything?"
"I've got it."
The technologies all spoke in unison, but their voices were all languid.
The director didn't say anything upon hearing this, and turned to leave.
He had only taken a few steps when the call from the biological research center came again. Listening to the terminal sprite's report, the director held back his temper for a long time, but finally couldn't help but answer the call.
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