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 |
|
65 | |
| Range |
|
46 | |
| • Damage Falloff | |||
| Stability |
|
35 | |
| Handling |
|
67 | |
| Reload Speed |
|
61 | |
| • Reload Time | |||
| Aim Assistance |
|
49 | |
| Ammo Generation |
|
29 | |
| Zoom |
|
12 | |
| Airborne Effectiveness |
|
4 | |
| Recoil |
|
49 | |
| Rounds Per Minute | 80 | ||
| Magazine | 6 | ||
| Attack | 0 | ||
Curated Roll
Lore
Starscape Null
Entropy's lesson: one day we'll all be still.
Threads of simulation break as she runs. She has no lungs to burn, no muscle fibers to feel the strain. Her flight is swift as thought, as command.
The mantle rests heavily on the back of her neck—buzzing, incomprehensible. Understanding Te'Qal now is like reading Morse code into the flickering of a dying light bulb.
Asphalt, sorghum, water, glass—flashing below her as she runs. A new world with every step. Seven-league boots carrying her away from—
Not her failure. Nothing but a setback.
The Echo failed her. Te'Qal's advice and will failed her. They couldn't. She is perfected, stripped down to unblemished essence.
If she failed, it was in overestimating her tools. It will not happen again.
A twitch of her fingers tells her where her nearest tools are. She turns towards them, pacing over stone inlaid with brass.
Thirteen Hobgoblins sing without mouths. Their leader is a miniature Harpy, encouraging their work with the high clean tones of an Oracle.
They've constructed a theater, seats rising in elegant arcs around them. There is no audience. None but her.
A false note. A Hobgoblin breaks out of position and pushes another in punishment, hand to glass.
Without warning, the group breaks into a brawl, a sort of cheerful surprise in their postures. One novel experience as good as another.
They've lost discipline. Her tools have ruined themselves.
She will need new ones.
Her spine aches. She tears open a passage through the network and is gone.