It became very clear to Korra that something was wrong within two seconds of arriving. When Mako appeared five seconds later and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to the corner of the ballroom, it became very apparent what exactly that thing was.
“What are you wearing?” Mako hissed to her once they were out of the main party-going throngs. Korra gaped at him.
Another Saturday, another night of incessant yapping from the apartment above. Korra stares up at the ceiling over her bed, imagining she can see the mutt through the plaster and floorboards. She imagines that it’s small, dressed up in a tutu half its life, and carried around in a handbag.
With a yawn she rolls over and checks her alarm clock: 3am. Awesome, she needs to be up in four hours.