Classified Item
Bungie has the ability to expose information in the API that, for whatever reason, is not yet ready to be seen. We call these items "classified".
Sometimes classified items eventually are revealed to be real, in-game items. However, they are usually just junk data that made it into the API that isn't intended to be seen.
We include these items in the database solely to provide a complete view of what is in the API files. You should not take the presence of this item as a guarantee of something coming in a future update or attempt to analyze its presence too deeply. Doing so likely will only lead to disappointment.
This item is categorized as classified because:
- It is a dummy responsible for generating items purchased from vendors or obtained from opening engrams.
Special Perks
Stats
| Impact |
|
100 | |
| Range |
|
71 | |
| • Damage Falloff | |||
| Stability |
|
27 | |
| Handling |
|
25 | |
| Reload Speed |
|
11 | |
| • Reload Time | |||
| Aim Assistance |
|
14 | |
| Ammo Generation |
|
26 | |
| Zoom |
|
22 | |
| Airborne Effectiveness |
|
90 | |
| Recoil |
|
49 | |
| Rounds Per Minute | 72 | ||
| Magazine | 1 | ||
| Attack | 0 | ||
Curated Roll
Lore
Refurbished A499
Get to higher ground.
"Did you ever look in on the 'you' that you were?" Lodi asks.
Orin threads syllables and concepts together, tilts her head at him while she thinks.
They meet like this sometimes—at restaurants, on rusty rooftops—for, fool as he is, she feels some duty yet to try to give him what she can. He's here because she quit, after all, his bosons poured into the gap she left in the Nine's universe. The least she can do is share what remains of her molting.
"I know who I was," Orin tells him. "I know what I lost. That alone outpaces many Guardians. But that isn't what you mean."
Lodi shakes his head. He's desert-reverent. "When the wind is right, when the cosmic dust is in my lungs, I'm still the 'me' that I was five years ago, ten years ago. The past isn't gone."
Atemporality. Orin tastes it blueberry-and-resin, swallows it bitter. The strain of comprehension, let alone the length of arm to reach it, comes Nine-given. Inhuman.
"It's not much," Lodi says. "And I'm not lost. It's just—"
"Sometimes," says Orin, her tongue like lead, "you thread the holes in the paper."
"Yes." Lodi tilts his head back. All Orin can see is his glowing eye, cyan the color of the holes in four-dimensionality. Softly he says, "It's all still there."
And Orin does not tell him that this is never how it was for her.