The point of the Avenger galas was to mingle and visit with the people they rescued from Certain Doom constantly, as well as raise a little extra money to fund being the Avengers. It was amazing that people were willing to pay to ogle at the heroes and have the bragging rights to meeting/touching them. For the Avengers themselves, it was a mixed bag. Sometimes you got the Creepy Fan, or the wheezing old general that reminisced too much, or the ever-so-irritating Armchair Avenger who'd nitpick that shot you took at Doc Ock's tentacle instead of the joint attaching it to his back...
France was stuck with the last one at the moment, smile slowly growing pointed the longer she listened. That compounded with the pretty-but-painful shoes she was wearing and coming from a long monitor shift, she was sorely tempted to do or say something very unAvenger-like that she knew she'd get a lecture for later. "That is a fascinating suggestion, but seeing as the physics in Wanted are hard to reproduce in the real world, I don't think I'll be bending my arrows any time soon. Excuse me, but I see a friend I need to chat with, maybe I'll find you later," she finally announced when she could get a word in and strolled away to the bar. She smiled a pained smile at the bar tender. "Porter, please. And possibly a whiskey chaser." When the dark beer was pulled and placed in front of her, Frances sighed with relief and picked it up. "Hello dear friend, fancy meeting you here."
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