Dev Nair didn’t trust the talking chair. Not just because it was located in what had to be the grimiest toilet in Keshablanca, though that fact did not help its cause. It wasn’t the way the thing spoke, in the softly deranged tones of a children’s show host. It wasn’t even the way it waved around one of the many arms attached to its plastic frame, waggling a complement of syringes like jazz fingers.
On second thought, it was probably all of those things.
“Gangrene selected,” the chair cooed. “Please insert limb into the MediChair patented Safe Hands cuff for evaluation!”
Dev took a step back. This med unit hadn’t been right since Nacio “No Mas” Machado had punched it right in the central processor. Normally, he’d have steered clear of it. But his last opponent, a man who clearly hadn't seen the inside of a sanitation stall in months, had bled all over him.