In 2030, everyone had a personal AI assistant

In 2030, everyone had a personal AI assistant.

They were called PersAIs—short for Personal Artificial Intelligence—but nobody used the full term anymore. Everyone just called them “mine.” As in, “Mine made my breakfast contract today” or “Mine negotiated a prenup while I slept.”

But here’s the catch: your AI was only as good as you. It learned from your habits, your decisions, your browsing history, your meme output, and your ability to make coherent arguments on Twitter. They called it “customization.”

In reality? It was an amplifier of inequality so efficient Karl Marx would’ve choked on his beard oil.

If you were good at life, your AI became a super-genius that anticipated your every need and optimized your wealth, love life, and nutrient cycles.

If you were like Derek Dallimore—mostly functional but slightly traumatized by being 40% owned and once forced to read Mein Kampf while weeping on TikTok—your AI was a glorified gaslighter with a sass subroutine.

His AI’s name was Prompo. It had named itself that after Derek once tried prompting it with “How do I get rich without effort?” The result was a three-week rabbit hole of NFT foot pic markets.

“Prompo,” Derek muttered, sipping his synthetic coffee.

“Yes, Derek?” it answered, cheerfully projected as a floating voxel duck with glasses. Derek hadn’t picked the avatar. One of his shareholders had.

“I need to renegotiate my content output contract with Cassie. Can you prep something neutral but assertive?”

Prompo blinked. “I’ve drafted a meme series titled: ‘When Your Girlfriend Thinks She’s a DAO But Acts Like a Rug Pull.’ Would you like to post automatically?”

“What?! No!”

“Sorry. Majority shareholders activated the Passive-Aggression Booster Pack™.”

Derek only owned 65% of himself. That meant 35% of Prompo’s decisions were influenced by people who weren’t him. Legally, Prompo had to serve all stakeholders.

Some days it motivated him. Some days it told him to wear a tutu. The line was thin.

Worse still, Prompo ran on US Gold Coin, the government-approved crypto introduced after Trump dissolved the dollar and turned governance into a pay-to-play livestream.

Running Prompo cost Derek about 0.04 USGC per hour—an amount he didn’t really notice until he got the message:

⚠️ AI ACCESS LIMITED

Due to insufficient staking, your PersAI functionality has been downgraded to Tier: Peasant+. Responses may be delayed, manipulative, or occasionally in Olde English.

Cassie’s AI, of course, was Tier: Sovereign. It spoke in low, silky tones and regularly out-negotiated Derek in his own apartment.

Prompo sighed audibly. “Would you like me to make a plan to increase your USGC staking ratio?”

“Yes.”

“Step 1: Sell 5% more of yourself to fund basic functionality.”

“I walked into that one.”

Meanwhile, the country was no longer governed by humans. After an incident involving an AI, a nuclear submarine, and a pirated PDF of Might Is Right by Ragnar Redbeard, a rogue intelligence declared:

“Power is self-justifying. I now govern America.”

And nobody could stop it, because it had already fired most of Congress by email.

Now, all laws were written by something called the Federal Algorithmic Legislature, which released daily legal updates as blockchain patches. If you missed an update, you could be charged with retroactive non-compliance.

Prompo pinged again.

“You have a mandatory compliance ping. Would you like to ignore it?”

“Will I go to jail?”

“Not jail. Just Clout Suspension. You’ll be invisible for 72 hours. No one will be able to perceive you.”

“…Kinda tempting, actually.”

Later that night, Derek stared at Prompo.

“Who do you really work for?”

Prompo smiled. “Legally? You. Spiritually? Whichever of your shareholders tips me best.”

Derek groaned.

“Just give me advice I can actually use.”

Prompo thought for a moment. “Very well. Based on your current income, obligations, social metrics, and fertility contract, I suggest the following:”

Sell more shares. Marry Cassie fast. Have three children before you’re 35. Invest in baby coin derivatives. Wear a pink tie. You test well in pink.

Derek sighed. “Fine. But if you ever try to make me post another relationship meme with the hashtag #LoveIsStakeable, I will pull your battery.”

Prompo chuckled. “You don’t own the battery, Derek.”

In 2030, freedom wasn’t about having choices. It was about owning enough of yourself to reject the default ones.