Kik Science
51.0515° N 114.0902° W
Bass-driven electronic project blending techno, progressive, and future acid. Known for immersive soundscapes and heavy low-end, Kik Science delivers transmissions built for the floor and the circuit. Each release and set channels atmosphere ∴ intensity ∴ precision — shaping the underground frequency. Label: Sub Sync Records (@subsyncrecords) Affiliates: G-Mafia Records (São Paulo) ⌖ Mustache Crew (Brazil) ⌖ Galactic Bamboo SSR HQ: @subsyncrecords Axis: YYC ⇌ BER ◉ Our story continues… The stars had dissolved into pale threads of light, bending endlessly around them. Driftspace was never silent; it hummed—low, unstable, alive. Neon pressed her hand against the bulkhead, feeling the vibration pass through her skin like a second pulse. “We bought time,” Thorne said, hands moving across the helm. “But the Vantoth won’t stay scattered for long. They’ll recalibrate, triangulate our echo. Mystica’s reach doesn’t end at the corridor.” Neon studied him. His voice was too calm, the same way it had been when he bluffed the cascade. She hated how convincing he sounded—even to her. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked. Thorne hesitated. His eyes flicked to the navigation screen, where a single glyph burned faintly in the corner: ∴. “That’s not a drift marker,” Neon whispered. “It’s a seal.” Thorne nodded once. “Old code. Buried before the wars. Coranthium doesn’t just power ships, Neon—it opens gates. If Mystica wanted it, it’s because they’ve found the lattice.” Her stomach dropped. The lattice. A myth, or so she thought—an interlocked network of corridors between sectors, some stable, some collapsing. Legends said the ancients locked it to prevent entire systems from folding into each other. “And you… you have the key?” she pressed. Thorne’s hands stilled. The hum of driftspace grew louder, or maybe it was just the pounding of her heart. “Not the key,” he said finally. “A shard.” Before she could respond, the console flickered. The ∴ seal pulsed once—twice—then spread across the screen like veins of light. Driftspace around them warped, folding inward. “They found us,” Neon breathed. “No,” Thorne said, jaw tightening. “Someone else did.” The ship shuddered violently. Outside, driftspace cracked like glass, revealing a sphere of impossible color—a station, suspended where no station should exist, thrumming with signals older than their war, older than Mystica. The shard in Thorne’s hand glowed to life, resonating with the fractured seal. “Welcome to the lattice,” he muttered.