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The Federation and their righteous assumption that everything they did was good and just and the best thing for everyone in the galaxy.
That attitude wore on Garak on a good day and a good day, this was not.
Today, he’d had enough – and then some. He’d had to call upon every shred of discipline gained from long years in a profession that he was skilled at, but did not love (he refused to think as to whether he meant tailoring or his work with the Obsidian Order by that), to keep from throwing people bodily out of his shop – possibly through the display window.
A breath. That’s all he needed. Some time away – away from the Federaji and their smug superiority, away from this too cold, too bright station with just enough of Cardassia left in it to make him long for home even more than he already did.
But he wasn’t likely to get that, so he’d soldier on, day after dreary day, until the day he finally snapped, the day it all became too much and he lost his patience with the righteousness for good.
Which direction that anger would go then… well, he did not know and did not care to speculate. He’d ride that hound when it came time and not a moment before.
In the meantime, he had uniforms to fit and to make, his irritation at excessive righteousness set aside in favor of survival for another day.
He wondered if he dared hope that day would come soon.