The ridges that stood in place of eyebrows on Garak's grey scaled face lifted ever so slightly as he listened to Nasir's miniature tirade. There was always something about passion to amuse him, even when the passion was, well, ill-advised and incredibly misplaced. He sucked in a breath of chilly, dank air, silently bemoaning his condition. Hell wasn't an instant of unfathomable pain, it was being made to endure small amounts of discomfort over an extended period of time.

"Well, if that's the case --and I'm willing to accept for a moment that it might actually be for you-- you should know just how we're expected to behave here. This ends with us dead or silenced and disgraced to the point that we can no longer even pretend to have a voice or any right to anything." His neck ridges flexed almost imperceptibly. It was cold, it was dark, but although he could see everything in the cell clearly, the anxiety of the enclosed space was getting to him. And Nasir's insistence on keeping their conversation on topic probably wasn't helping either.

"And no," he sighed heavily, attempting to match Nasir's drama with farce. "I suppose that when you get down to it, I'm nothing but a tailor who happened to find himself in the middle of a war zone. Before that I worked as a gardener, you know. Romulus was a bore on every conceivable level, but I should have stayed there a few more years. I'd built up quite a reputation for myself by the end of my stay."