Fleming Island
Lucian Wren's Guided Tour Through The Gate's Grit and Shadows
Where temptation smells like perfume, credit chips vanish faster than virtue, and everyone walks away feeling like they’ve won—until they count the cost.
I’ve been told that Fleming Island is the place to celebrate. A milestone. A windfall. A particularly good sandwich. Some say the island itself is a celebration—proof of humanity’s ingenuity and its insatiable appetite for excess. What was once a dreary patch of artificial landfill, enclosed by two canals to ensure smooth boat traffic, has since grown into The Gate’s grandest stage for sin.
Sin, you ask? Oh, I do mean the classics: gambling dens that sparkle like dreams but play like nightmares. Corporate lounges where deals are struck over chilled bottles of lunar champagne. Neon clubs that promise “escapes” of every variety—though they won’t specify what you’re escaping from. Even the food markets here have a moral dilemma attached. (“Farm-fresh protein? Lab-grown mystery? Or something that used to crawl through The Sink? Choose your adventure.”)
The island’s namesake, the illustrious Jasper Fleming, would have been proud. A man who built his empire not on innovation, but on observation. “People always want two things,” Fleming once said, “pleasure and distraction. Give them both and they’ll thank you for taking their money.” A philosopher in a tuxedo, that one.
Of course, Jasper’s been dead for two centuries now, his ashes scattered somewhere equally scenic and profitable. But his legacy remains—whispered through every rigged roulette wheel, every chipped poker chip, and every hotel concierge who tells you, “Your credit will cover that, sir.”
The Layout
Fleming Island isn’t big. It doesn’t need to be. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in vertical ambition and sensory overload.
The Core Strip – Ground level is where the lights are brightest, the music loudest, and the people most desperate to forget their lives for a night. The casinos run twenty-five hours a day, their schedules bending to accommodate gamblers who no longer know what time is.
The Seven Heavens – Higher up, the corporate lounges and exclusive clubs hover above the chaos. These are the arenas of power players who bet fortunes, not chips. Here, you’ll find quiet conversations over drinks that cost as much as a month’s rent in the Middle Heights. If you’ve ever wanted to see a CEO lose their dignity in private, this is the place.
The Edge Markets – At the island’s outskirts, you’ll find the “markets.” Need a rare artifact? A forged ID? A bottle of real, pre-collapse whiskey? It’s all there, traded under the table, beneath a polite veneer of legality. Just be ready to pay—Fleming Island never forgets a debt.
What You’ll See
The Sinners and the Lost: Drifters and dreamers. Tycoons and thieves. Wide-eyed tourists on their first trip downtown, hoping to buy a slice of heaven, and locals who know better but keep coming anyway.
Security: Yes, there’s plenty. House-affiliated guards who look far too clean for the job, and less polished enforcers who operate without logos. I suggest you keep your hands where everyone can see them.
The Waterways: A two-way canal flanks the island, lined with luxury boats on loan and shuttles promising return trips. Just don’t forget which lock takes you back to sanity.
Lucian’s Advice
Play, But Don’t Stay: One night on Fleming Island is a thrill. Two nights, a mistake. Three, and you might need a rescue operation.
Cash Is King: Forget credits—cash still speaks louder in the markets. Digital trails don’t mix well with desperation.
Watch the Mirrors: Casinos have a habit of reflecting back your best and worst self. If you see someone you don’t like, leave.
A Final Note
I spent one night here. Long enough to lose an uncomfortable sum of credits and gain a splitting headache. I might have stayed longer, but an old acquaintance tipped me off—someone had been asking for me by name. I won’t say who, because you’re not my therapist, and I’m not inclined to overshare. Let’s just say the island stopped feeling like a party after that.
As I boarded my return shuttle, an old man leaned over, smelling of gin and regret. “She’s a cruel mistress, this place,” he muttered, staring back at the neon skyline. I glanced behind us and said, “I don’t know. She seemed nice enough to me.”
He laughed. A sad, wheezing sound. “Wait till she starts asking for your name.”
I left without giving mine.
Next Stop: Sludge City. Where glamour goes to die, and industry lives forever.
—Lucian Wren