Lunavale

Most of Lunavale’s population is working-class, made up of lifelong residents, service workers, pier vendors, and drifters who decided to stay. Locals live above neon noodle bars or behind metal shutters etched with old Mirador graffiti. Multiple languages flow through the streets — English, Spanish, Korean, Japanese, Russian — reflecting generations of migration and trade along the coast.

Despite the surface-level shine, wealth isn’t common here. Most people scrape by on tourism season surges, under-the-table side jobs, or by working for businesses with quiet ties to Halvanna. A small group of legacy families from Mirador Bay days still hold property or local influence, but gentrification has made them rare.

The augmented population is growing. Most people have small implants — health ports, memory chips, ocular mods — but full cybernetic limbs or high-end systems still stand out. Visitors often assume Lunavale is behind on tech; locals just prefer not to flash unless there’s a reason.

Everyone here knows someone who came to visit… and never left.

On paper, Lunavale is a modest coastal city governed under the Neo-California State Authority, with a local mayor and a small council handling day-to-day operations. But in practice, things work a little differently. Power here is about who you know, what you own, or who owes you a favor — and official titles don’t always mean much.

The mayor, currently in their second term, primarily handles press interviews and tourism initiatives. The real decisions happen in quiet meetings with Bellecourt reps, boardwalk investors, and Halvanna-connected “donors” who helped bankroll the city’s post-rebrand revival. A few legacy families from the old Mirador Bay days still have influence, but most of the weight is carried by private interest groups and discreet corporate partners.

Law enforcement is thin and stretched, often supported by hired private security. If you’re rich, you get fast response times and armored patrols. If you’re local, you learn to handle things yourself or call someone who owes you a favor. For everything else, the Civic Security Department does just enough to keep tourists safe and the headlines clean.

Taxes exist, but no one talks about them — just the fees. Want to sell trinkets on the pier? There’s a form. Run a food cart? You’ll pay a “space preservation fee.” Open a bar near the beach? Hope your liquor license comes through before the summer ends. Still, most residents accept it: Lunavale isn’t cheap, but it’s quieter than Halvanna, and you can still make a living if you know where not to look.

Beneath it all, everyone knows the city survives because the right people want it to. Keep the beach clean, the lights bright, and the questions minimal — and Lunavale keeps breathing.

Lunavale survives on tourism — or at least on the dream of it. Branded as a sun-soaked coastal getaway from the sprawl of Halvanna, the city invites visitors with promises of glowing piers, neon-drenched nights, and local charm. It’s a place people want to visit, to escape to, to disappear in — for a weekend, a month, or maybe forever.

The pier remains Lunavale’s crown jewel. Old Mirador Bay wood planks now shine beneath a layer of reinforced synthglass and digital projectors. Vendors sell fusion street food, pop-up clubs pulse with synthwave, and tourists wander through souvenir stalls hoping to capture something "authentic." Drones hover above, offering sky tours. Holo-spray artists perform on the spot. At night, the city hums with light and laughter — curated, commercial, and just believable enough.

Festivals are frequent and calculated — beachfront projection shows, cyberart exhibitions, and influencer-sponsored concerts bring flocks of visitors each season. Some are drawn to the atmosphere. Others are drawn to what hides beneath it. Unregistered night markets and “locals-only” lounges offer risk and adrenaline. Those who know where to look find places off-map, but still on-brand.

Tourism boards promise peace. The city delivers a performance. But for the right kind of person — someone looking to reinvent, escape, or burn out in peace — Lunavale feels like freedom with a sunset filter.