It’s going to be a wonderful day. Of course it is. Half a mile above ground, the air is chill and sweet as champagne. A murmur gentles the morning silence as commuters trade snippets of conversation, and the gliding arrival of our train does nothing to disturb the quiet.

The monorail carriage offers up a pillowy carpet and ivory leather seat soft as marshmallow.

“Thank you for choosing RealCorp Rail. If passengers could please put on their visors and make their selections, we’ll be underway.” The voice is caramel smooth, and belongs to a woman in a RealCorp journey attendant’s uniform.

I take the visor from its pocket in my chair, settling the band across my forehead. Flipping the half-circle of glass over my eyes, I use the armrest panel to select Traditional English Forest, Spring from the dropdown menus that appear before me.

Noiselessly, we pull away from the platform into open air. Through the windows, my visor provides what I asked for; a rolling carpet of bluebells beneath ancient tree trunks crowned in sun-dappled green. I sit back to soak in the view, and the soothing music drifting through the carriage.

We pass through the Lesser Needle and the Central 100 Tower, picking up new passengers. The journey attendant walks the carriage, offering tea or coffee. Despite the early hour, some opt for Real Buzz, the RealCorp energy drink that’s all but killed Coca Cola.

I order a latte, already thinking over the stories on my desk at the Global News building. A species of pufferfish, recovered from extinction by LifeSci Industries. The second marriage of the son of a prominent politician.

A shimmer passes over my sight, startling me. I turn to check the other passengers, but everything is calm. Everything is perfect.

I return to my forest.

It’s undisturbed. Ethereal and peaceful.

Until it vanishes.

My breath stops. I blink, shaking my head. Trying to banish the vision. Trying to understand.

The reality of Central Metropolis stretches beneath me. A carpet of ragged tents clings to the feet of the outermost skyscrapers like mould to the roots of a tree. The darkness at street level is permanent, roads and highways flowing with the white blood of headlights. Lower levels of every tower are soot-blackened, stained with graffiti. A phantom chemical taste fills my mouth at the swaths of orange smog shrouding the smallest buildings.

A sluggish river crawls through the city like the corpse of a great, rotting snake. A column of flame leaps from the cratered side of a building squatting on its bank. The front wall collapses into the murky water, exposing innards that belch fire and black smoke. Clouds of ash curl into the already filthy air.

The carriage’s tranquil music feels disgusting, slippery as maggots in my ears. Down there, too small to see, people are dying. My heart stumbles as I realise. Nausea twists my insides. I search for the telltale blue of first responders.

My chest aches. Nothing. No help is coming.

“Miss,” I flinch at the caramel voice, the cool, manicured hand on my shoulder, “please come with me.” Numb, I remove the useless visor and follow.

The monorail’s executive suite has no visors, its ReVision tech is built into the windows. Western American Prairie, Summer. Golden fields of sun-dried grass, endless blue sky. Herds of chestnut mustang.

The attendant backs out of the carriage as a waiting man turns to me.

“First, allow me to apologise most sincerely for any inconvenience.” His teeth are ice white against a plump curve of ingratiating smile.

“Inconvenience?” I hear myself ask.

“An unfortunate equipment failure,” a self-deprecating frown puckers his brows. The word reality dangles between us.

Long disused journalist’s instincts grind to life. Questions jostle for my attention. How long, and who knows? Why haven’t I heard about it? Why haven’t I written about it?

He senses them, and speaks quickly, “allow me to offer you a gift, on behalf of RealCorp.” He turns to the back wall, some hidden touch revealing a concealed bar. He draws a sweating can of Real Buzz from an ice bucket.

“One minor thing,” he says, “you agree it would be distressing to anyone with whom you might share… the details?”

I don’t answer. It wasn’t meant as a question.

“So, if you could please sign this.” In my pocket, my iLife chimes. He nods, and I pull out the palm-sized oblong of smart glass. There’s a notification. An email; reams of boilerplate RealCorp remorse. And an attachment.

A non-disclosure agreement.

“I’ll leave you to think. Please, enjoy the rest of your journey here.”

Alone, the explosion haunts me. The poisonous air. The tents, full of lives lived without the smallest joy. The sting of tears gathers in my eyes and throat.

I consider my dusty, forgotten duty to the truth, and my mouth goes dry. I open the Real Buzz and take a grateful swig. It’s sweet, and familiar, and the bubbles sing on my tongue.

I sink into a chair, comfortable as clouds, and notice the windows have changed to my sun-dappled forest. I take another sip. Warmth radiates from my belly, a sense of calm that rises from nowhere. I lift the can to my lips, the cold delicious against my skin, and drink deeply.

I look out the window, at the rich green and perfect blue of my bluebell wood.

I saw something horrible, but it’s far away now. Contentedness settles on me like sunlight. A quiet, immovable sense that everything is alright and always will be.

My iLife chirrups. I press my thumb to the form it wants me to sign.

The monorail sails through the city’s spires, carrying me to work. I think of the stories on my desk. A pufferfish has been recovered from extinction. All at once that seems unspeakably lovely to me.

I drink. I smile. It’s going to be a wonderful day. Of course it is.

The end