✍️ Mid-July Update: Cats, Conspiracies, and Chaos (So... Business as Usual)

Hey there, you glorious hums—

We're halfway through July, and I’m still alive, still typing, and still being harassed by my cats. Progress on Villain Us: One for the Money is officially back on track—and not only is the crew coming together like a dysfunctional found-family sitcom, I’ve had a few lightning-bolt moments that tie this book directly into other series.

(Yes, TALON, Silver & Smith, and even the Portals may be implicated. No, I won’t apologize. Yes, it’s going to be beautiful.)

🎥 Want to see what all 9 of my cats look like?
Follow me on TikTok, or if you're a social media hopper, I’m also on Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube. My house is a zoo, and you’re welcome to peek behind the curtain. No extra charge for fur on the feed.

Welcome to the city where surveillance is god and truth is just a corrupted data file away from deletion.

When Jack Tucker stumbles across an entity masquerading as a deity, things go downhill fast—paranoia, rogue Agents, Con-man superheroes, ancient monsters with bandwidth, and a conspiracy so tangled even the Traveller himself might need help unpacking it.

If cyberpunk and cosmic horror had a love child raised by a broken firewall and a ghost, this book would be it.

📚 Book 3 of The Traveller’s Inn series.
(And yes, Book 1 is still FREE.)
👉 TravisSivart.com

It’s not just this newsletter’s story... but if you're hungry for tales (tails?) from your favorite cyberpunk cat burglar, there’s a brand-new short over on:

• Ko-fi: ko-fi.com/travisisivart

• Patreon: patreon.com/travisisivart

• And yes, it's in the full newsletter too—because I know some of you like your chaos in one inbox-shaped bundle.

This one’s got mystery, mischief, and probably a morally questionable snack.

That wraps the mid-month madness. Keep an eye on socials, tell your favorite villain you love them, and don’t trust any Furbys that sing unprompted.

Talk soon,
—Travis

The Vault of Nine Lives

Look, hums—when someone offers to pay you six figures in cryptostacks for "retrieving an item of emotional significance," you usually assume it’s something boring. An heirloom. A love letter. Maybe a really cursed spoon.

What you don’t expect is a deathtrap vault built like a game show for the damned, themed entirely around your own species’ alleged immortality.

Let me back up.

The message came encoded through five proxies and a singing telegram bot. All it said was:

“Retrieve the object. You’ll know it when you see it. Vault access provided. Payment: generous. Danger: certain.”

And you know what?

I accepted.

I was broke, hungry, and honestly? Curious. (Also, my tech-claws were overdue for sharpening and I’d eaten too many discount sardine tins.)

The coordinates led to a forgotten casino buried in a derelict sector near the city’s bones—back when cyberpunk still meant neon and noir, not neon and nostalgia.

I found the vault in the sub-basement, behind a rusted cat-shaped door. Because of course it was shaped like a cat. Complete with ruby eyes and a smug little smile.

I licked my paw, tapped the lockpad, and the door hissed open.

The air that hit me smelled like must, static, and dreams gone sour.

This wasn’t just a vault.

This was a gauntlet.

As I stepped inside, a smooth, sultry voice echoed through the air.

“Welcome, contestant. You have nine lives. Good luck.”

Then the door slammed shut behind me.

Figures.

Classic trap. But elegant. Crisscrossing red beams danced through the corridor in time with a soft, rumbling purr. They weren’t stationary either—oh no. These lasers shifted, purring louder the closer I got.

I dropped low, tail tight, and moved through the pattern like liquid shadow. One beam grazed my ear. Close shave. Stylish.

The next room filled with green mist. I took one breath and my brain melted into fuzzy euphoria. I flopped on the floor, giggling at nothing, dreaming of warm sunbeams and dead mice that tasted like hope.

But something tugged at me.

Memory. Will. The desire not to die in a glorified hallucination.

I slapped myself across the muzzle and staggered forward.

Now this was rude.

Dozens of me—reflected and distorted. One version had blood on her claws. Another wore a crown. One was crying.

“You’re not a hero,” she said.
“You’ll die alone,” whispered another.
“You should’ve saved him,” said the last.

I smashed the mirrors.

Every last one.

Because screw the past, and double-screw regret.

A hall of statues. All cats. Each one unique. Regal. Aloof.

They watched me.

I blinked. One was closer.

I walked sideways, slow, casual. Blinked again.

Another moved.

By the end, I was crab-walking backwards, eyes wide, muttering curses and daring them to try me. One hissed. I hissed louder.

Don’t start nothing, won’t get nothing.

This one almost broke me.

The room shimmered with the scent of bourbon, leather, and smoke. And there—sitting in an armchair—was him.

Jack.

Not the real Jack. An echo. But his voice hit like a gut punch.

“Stay,” he said. “Just for a while. You’re tired. You’ve earned a rest.”

And I wanted to. I wanted to curl up on that lap and pretend I wasn’t broken or angry or a thousand regrets too late.

But I reached out, touched his face—and it turned to ash.

I walked away.

Eyes burning. Breathing tight.

Four lives left.

The final chamber was quiet. Still. No traps. No taunts.

Just a golden key floating above a stone pedestal.

It shimmered like moonlight trapped in metal. Ancient. Wrong. Calling.

I reached out—

—and everything went black.

I woke up outside.

No memory of how I got out. My gear was intact. My claws were dull. My ribs ached.

But I held the key.

No other object. No vault prize. Just the key and a blank spot in my memory about thirty minutes wide.

I tried hacking the vault feed. It was gone. Wiped. Like it never existed.

Now the key hangs on a hook in my lair. It glows faintly in the dark and hums when I sleep. I've scanned it, x-rayed it, scanned it again. It's not just old—it's impossible.

Sometimes I catch myself staring at it for hours.

Sometimes I hear the vault door in my dreams, opening again.

And sometimes—when I wake in the middle of the night—I count my lives.

Because I’m pretty sure I’m down to four.

Next time someone says “emotional significance,” remind me to ask questions. Or at least charge double.

🖤 Support more chaos, cursed artifacts, and questionable decisions at TravisSivart.com.