By 2036, Germany has transformed into a dehumanised tech dystopia. The country is governed by a party so far-right and so incompetent that, compared with it, even the AfD seems like the lesser evil: the BfD.

Artificial intelligence has spread into virtually every aspect of life, leading to widespread intellectual and physical lethargy. People have become accustomed to AI taking care of almost everything on their behalf. Thinking is exhausting. Taking action is exhausting too. As a result, citizens spend most of their time indoors, staring at one screen or another. Everything is delivered to their doorstep. They want as little as possible to do with other demanding human beings and increasingly consume digital products instead of real ones. Goods and services from the physical world have become a luxury.

During the early years of the AI boom, tokens were still relatively cheap, and a large share of white-collar workers were replaced by AI systems. The result was widespread unemployment among highly educated professionals such as programmers, lawyers and journalists.

Later, as AI models became more capable—and far more expensive—many employers and businesses could no longer afford them. Yet rehiring human workers was widely regarded as a step backwards. For the managers responsible, it would have amounted to admitting their own failure. As a result, bringing people back was rarely considered an option.

Anyone who still has an office job can count themselves lucky—and yet often does not. Working with mediocre AI systems undermines people's creativity, productivity and sense of agency. Depression, boreout and lethargy have become part of everyday life.

Many companies, public authorities and service providers therefore remain trapped at a below-average level of AI capability while facing above-average costs. Nevertheless, the belief persists that AI and automation will eventually make everything better.

High unemployment and an ageing population place even greater strain on the welfare system. Little wonder that Germany finds itself in deep crisis. The tech giants only make matters worse. They pay none of their enormous profits in taxes in Germany and have embedded themselves in public administration through public-private partnerships and critical IT infrastructure. Even if someone wanted to put the brakes on AI, they no longer could. It has long since become part of the system itself.

Those who have lost both their jobs and any hope of finding another survive as micro-workers on one of countless online job platforms, where ever smaller gigs are handed out. The unemployed architect now picks up a pet from the groomer's. The chemist delivers a hot Starbucks coffee to a carpenter. The engineer queues as a proxy buyer to purchase the latest iBrainLink for a client. They receive no minimum wage—only whatever the gig platforms are willing to pay. And there are plenty of people desperate enough to take any job on offer.

Social welfare, meanwhile, is little more than a starvation wage, often paid in kind rather than in cash. Nobody actually starves, however, thanks to public food dispensers that print protein-vitamin bars on demand and without limit. A culinary delight they are not.

In such a world, buying unprocessed food, ordering a real meal in a restaurant or receiving a service from an actual human being has become a luxury. Those with money to burn hire human doctors, nursery workers, physiotherapists, teachers and carers—after all, who wants a machine to wipe their backside? For most people, however, even these services have been taken over, more or less inadequately, by bots and AI systems. Capitalism and automation dominate the market, and they have not made life easier—only mediocre and expensive.

At least public security has also been automated through AI technology. Digital tracking, CCTV surveillance in public spaces and predictive policing ensure that dissatisfied citizens are separated from one another before they can organise a revolution or rise up against the machines. In 2036, this is a particularly pressing concern, as Berlin is preparing to host the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games.

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We find ourselves in the waiting room of a medical centre in Berlin. It is late morning, around 10 a.m. The waiting room has all the charm of an old staff room at a school: worn-out chairs, tables strewn with greasy copies of Die Zeit, and threadbare carpeting. The place smells of poverty and poor dental hygiene. At least there is no dust where the robot vacuum dutifully makes its rounds between the chair and table legs. Dirt and dust bunnies accumulate in the corners instead. In the flickering light—the wiring in this building has clearly seen better days—Martin and Amira sit on rickety chairs waiting for their dental appointments.

They feel uncomfortable. It took an effort to leave the house in the first place, and they spent the entire journey staring into their phones. But for some reason, reception in this waiting room is even worse than usual. The videos in their social media feeds refuse to load, and somehow it seems wise to keep an eye on the room as well—just in case a piece of the ceiling comes down and a quick escape becomes necessary. When a chunk of plaster actually flakes off the wall, both of them are startled enough to laugh. They strike up a conversation and discover that talking to a real flesh-and-blood human being is actually rather pleasant.

They must have taken an immediate liking to one another, because although both are clearly lacking in social skills, they make a genuine effort to keep the conversation going. At one point they suggest that it might be easier to connect through their phones and chat while sitting side by side—after all, that way they could use emojis, AI-generated jokes and all sorts of other communication aids. But the problem remains: internet access is scarce here.

After a good two hours, Stefan enters the waiting room. He is puzzled by the unusual sight of two apparent strangers enthusiastically conversing in a public place. Like any normal person, he first pulls out his phone and tries to avoid the socially demanding situation. But Martin and Amira explain that phones are only useful here as makeshift torches and invite him to join their imaginary campfire. It seems it will be quite some time before anyone is called in. Besides, it feels good to form a little community in this strange place, especially because unsettling noises can be heard coming from the room next door.

Apparently there is a second waiting room containing far more people. Their silhouettes can be seen through the frosted glass window in the door. Yet neither Amira nor Martin nor Stefan dares to open it. The people on the other side are loud and aggressive. They complain constantly, sometimes even shout. Every now and then it sounds as though a chair has been smashed. This is where all those end up whose treatment has been deemed too expensive by the insurance AI. The patients do not go home. Instead, they remain in the non-waiting room, grumbling and hoping for a miracle.

Amira is relieved that she has been sitting here for hours. Apparently, that means she will be able to afford treatment today. And rightly so. After all, as a tiler she earns decent money and pays enormous amounts in taxes and social contributions. Surely a simple filling should be covered.

Stefan reminisces about his former life as a web designer. The fees he used to earn—what a dream! These days he is unemployed and has not found work in IT for years. Just as he begins to explain how AI has transformed cybersecurity, a loudspeaker announcement summons him into the treatment room.

Martin and Amira watch him leave in bewilderment. They have been waiting much longer than he has. Martin takes the opportunity to tell Amira about the good old days when he worked as a lawyer. He has now been unemployed for six years and supplements his income with platform-based microjobs. Just as he is describing how he lost his last case to a legal AI, a delivery bot appears and thrusts a lukewarm pizza box into Amira’s hands.

Amira curses. She forgot to pause her automatic delivery subscription. Normally, pizza arrives at noon every day. She had not considered that the AI would continue the service even when she was sitting in a waiting room rather than working on a building site. Naturally, she still has to pay for it. So she invites Martin to share the meal. He is delighted; this morning he only had time to wolf down a protein bar. He assures Amira that there is no need to be embarrassed about only being able to afford substrate pizza. Everyone knows that a real pizza made from flour—far too expensive—yeast—without genetic modification!—tomatoes—what luxury!—and cheese—who could possibly afford that?—is reserved for the wealthy elite these days. The carbon taxes alone make the ingredients prohibitively expensive. The only downside is that substrate pizza is terrible for your teeth.

Since nobody has tried to watch social media videos for hours, a push notification finally manages to get through: Anthropic and Deep Seek are once again fighting a war over rare earth minerals in Tanzania.

After another hour, Martin and Amira decide they have had enough of waiting and would rather attend the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games. They leave the medical centre, untreated teeth and all, and run into Stefan outside. He is holding an ice pack to his cheek and smiling crookedly. Unfortunately, he could not afford the treatment after all and chose to have his teeth extracted instead. At least he earned a little money in the process. The dental practice can make good use of the gold from old fillings, and the teeth themselves can be repurposed as replacement dentures.

Together, the three of them head towards the Olympic Stadium, where the opening ceremony is due to take place. But long before they reach the entrance, they encounter a blockade. Security bots operated by the Berlin police and the IOC are allowing only selected spectators onto the festival grounds. Amira and Martin are turned away. Stefan, however, receives a green light. Thanks to his public-spirited donation of teeth, he has accumulated enough credits to earn a one-day standing-room pass.

When the ceremony finally begins, Stefan calls Martin and Amira.

"What’s the opening ceremony like?" Amira asks.

"Absolutely beautiful! The screen is enormous!"

Where are the 2036 Olympic Games actually taking place? Nobody knows. Berlin merely purchased the broadcasting rights for the live stream.

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