Jensen: Why did Sarif stop the investigation? You said he was spooked. What spooked him?
Redford: You wouldn't believe me even if I told you. Hell, even I don't. I still don't believe it. You believe in ghosts, Jensen?
Jensen: Sarif was spooked by ghosts?
Redford: Close enough. Illuminati, conspiracies, theories, it's all bullshit. But you stink of it, Jensen. Enough to have your boss, one of the most powerful men in the world look away. You're a ghost, a fucking tragedy. Everything you touch, everything that touches you dies.
Jensen: You mentioned someone named Michelle. Who's Michelle?
Redford: Your guardian angel. Tell me, do robots even believe in angels? Or did they take that out of you? Did they take that away, you know, your soul, when they built you? Tell me, what was it like when you died, Jensen?
Jensen: I know you're in a lot of pain, and the morphine is . . .
Redford: Just find her before they do. You owe her that much.
Jensen: Who did this to you?
Redford: Guys in suits. One of them, David or Daniel, something like that. British accent. He was in charge. Talked about a Mr. Grey. They were in a hurry. Four of them, not counting the one they left behind. Well-armed. Disciplined. I didn't stand a chance. Maybe that metal corpse you call a body will do it better than mine did.
Jensen: What were they looking for? You, robot. They wanted my information on you. Someone powerful has their eye on you and is very interested in your past.
Jensen: Redford, I know you're in a lot of pain, but it's important you give me as many details as you can.
Redford: There's a storage unit in the alley next to the bank, near the police department. That's where the suits are headed. I tried, didn't give them anything. There's a safe. It has what you want. It'll get you to her. It'll lead you to her, to Michelle. The safe, they don't have the right combination. Four-zero-six-two. Remember!
Jensen: Is there anything you can give me to help?
Redford: Take whatever you want from here or the storage unit. There's weapons cache and some money there.
Jensen: I'm leaving, but I'll call in an ambulance. You'll be okay.
Redford: No, those fucking animals! I can't move anything. I was turning around, pulling my gun when the first bullet hit me. The second one . . . They fucking paralyzed me.
Jensen: I'm sure it's not as bad as you think. It might be a reaction to the morphine.
Redford: I know what morphine does. I also know what a nine-millimeter round fired at less than ten meters does to the thoracic vertebrae on impact.
Jensen: You need a doctor. They can fix that.
Redford: I'm not turning into a freak. Even if I could afford the surgery, the augments, I'd rather die than be half a machine. And I sure as hell am not going to live the rest of my life in a wheelchair! Shitting in a God damned diaper!
Redford: Listen, I know there's still a few more morphine shots. Another two should do the trick. Please, this is as close as I'm going to get to begging you. Don't leave me like this. You owe me that much.
Jensen: Why do you hate augmentation that much?
Redford: Because it isn't right. You can't go changing the way things are! You can't replace the real thing with an immitation! It isn't right. It isn't natural.
Jensen: It can save your life.
Redford: No. You lose more than what gets left behind the chopping block. You should know this by now.
Jensen: I understand, but technology, it's different now. It can help you. You can still live a normal life.
Redford: A normal life? What would you know about a normal life? Did technology really help you, Jensen? I think it made you a monster. Sarif didn't give you your life back. He just made you better at taking it away from others.
Jensen: I'm sorry, Redford. I won't do it.
Redford: What is this? Some Asimov First Law bullshit? What did they do, robot? Program mercy out of you? Or you just too much of a chicken-shit to get your hands dirty?