HR-The Hunger Games with More Paperwork-Part 2

District 9: Survival Guide

For the weary, the wise, and the dangerously employed.

Authored by Hunny, VP of People Services (Field Medic, Emotional Archivist, Keeper of the Chocolate Kisses)

Mental Prep Checklist

[ ] Rehearse your “I’m listening” face

[ ] Practice saying “That’s an interesting perspective” without twitching

[ ] Hide your real thoughts behind a policy

[ ] Remember: “Wellness” is a noun, not a PowerPoint theme

Conflict Resolution Kit Contents

Item Purpose

Jar of Chocolate Kisses Emergency sustenance or bribe

Tissue For tears, sneezes, or sopping up your dignity

Laminated Policy Shield against “radical candor”

Peppermint Optional For breath or existential nausea

Common Threats & Countermeasures

Threat Response Strategy

“Let’s do a culture refresh” Nod slowly. Begin updating your resume.

“Lunch is flexible” Eat in the supply closet. Guard your food.

“Project Freedom” Assume layoffs. Hide your empathy.

“We’re all family here” Activate boundaries. Call your real family.

“Let’s be radically candid” Deploy tissue. Exit break room. File incident report.

Now Hunny was ready to start her day.

In District 9, the sun never quite rose—it flickered behind a fog of unread emails and half-baked initiatives. She arrived at 7:58 a.m., armed with a lukewarm coffee and the kind of resolve only forged by years of surviving corporate absurdity.

Her badge said “VP People Services,” but everyone knew she was more like a field medic in a war no one officially declared.

The morning briefing began promptly at 8:00. The managers gathered like weary tributes, clutching laptops and emotional baggage. One of the VPO’s had a twitch. The VP of Commercial Strategy was already negotiating PTO as if it were contraband. Someone from Finance had come armed with Excel data that made us all question our future.

Hunny scanned the room. District 9 was fracturing. Burnout was spreading. Boundaries were dissolving faster than last quarter’s morale metrics.

She cleared her throat.

“Before we dive in,” she said, “just a reminder: your teams are not productivity machines. They are humans. With feelings. And digestive systems. Please stop scheduling meetings during lunch without providing lunch.”

Silence. Then someone muttered, “We thought lunch was flexible.” Another said, “In most states, we legally don’t have to give lunch breaks. Isn’t it ALL flexible?”

Hunny smiled politely but thought, “So is my patience.”

The meeting spiraled. There was talk of “reorgs,” “culture refreshes,” and a mysterious new initiative called Freedom, which sounded suspiciously like a layoff with branding.

By 9:17, Hunny had defused a passive-aggressive escalation, rewritten a policy mid-meeting, and reminded everyone that “wellness” wasn’t just a slide deck with stock photos of people doing yoga.

She returned to her desk, where a sticky note waited:

“Hunny—urgent: someone tried to implement ‘radical candor’ in the break room. It got weird. One person is crying and the other is threatening to quit and we are already short-handed.”

She sighed, grabbed her conflict resolution kit (a handful of chocolate kisses, a tissue, and a laminated copy of the Respectful Workplace Policy), and whispered:

“District 9 never sleeps. But I do dream of escape. And in that dream, no one schedules meetings during lunch.”