Libby hadn't meant to break away--she'd actually intended to stick close to Morgan for the duration of the expedition. Libby could carry a gun, Libby could help people, but Libby was not a leader. Morgan was the Ana-Lucia of this group.

In the end, though, helping people is what got her into this mess. She'd bumped into a kid, and stopped to help him to his feet, dust him off, and make sure he was okay. She'd been trailing by the back of the group, however, and by the time she was ready to rejoin them, they were gone. Now she was just walking around as casually as possible, looking for any one of the four familiar faces she needed to see.

"Dammit..." she muttered under her breath.

Very slowly, a little bit at a time, Libby could feel some of her old paranoia creeping back. The last thing she needed was to make a scene, so she quickly looked around to get a handle on her surroundings. There was an opening into a back alley not too far down the street. She'd head in, where people would be far less likely to see her, and relax herself. If she needed to, she could just head back towards the Barge. She'd memorized the route they'd taken to get this far.

Strolling along, like any local just out and about, she headed at an average pace down the street. Once near the alley, she took a quick look out of the corner of her eye. Nobody was there, so she quickly slipped on through, maintaining her pace until she could find some sort of doorway or stoop to sit against.

Libby froze; she couldn't believe she'd been separated from her group and caught so quickly, but that was easier to accept than the voice that had just told her to stop.

A trickle of cold sweat running down her back, she followed the Minster's order and turned around slowly. "Martha..."

Knowing Martha had been changed and having to experience it for herself were worlds apart, and it was breaking her heart to see her friend as she was now.

Libby was definitely afraid for herself--how could she not be?--but most of her fear was for Martha. If Martha seriously injured or killed her here, and everything managed to go back to normal afterward...she didn't want to imagine what might happen to her friend's mental state.

She didn't argue with Martha about how she knew her name, or that they'd been friends only a short while before. It would have been pointless. Instead, she placed her hands atop her head, lacing her fingers together, and slowly lowered herself to her knees.

"I want you to know that, whatever happens to me, I won't blame you at all. I forgive you." That was a message for the normal Martha she knew and loved, if she ever came back into existence.

"I didn't say it for your sake." Not this version of her, anyway. She didn't care about the feelings of this particular Martha, if she did in fact have any. In any case, backup was hardly necessary. Libby wasn't planning to fight.

"I know," she said, in reference to the supposed stupidity of her actions. "And yet I'll still take this over doing nothing when people needed help. Imagine that."

There was no response to the rough treatment or the loss of her weapon, although her wrists hurt and her heart was pounding in her throat. "My life has always been best when I can help people." She didn't say that because it sounded defiant or brave; it was the simple truth.

As for the death sentence, however it would be carried out, she'd figured as much. At least she'd die knowing she had tried her best.

Libby squinched her eyes shut as she hit the ground; she'd tried to fight the forward momentum at first, which caused her to land on one side. The grit and dirt scraped one cheek in a way that would later leave a raw friction burn.

"None of this is your fault," she said, nearly breathless, as hands descended on her and yanked her to her feet. Again, just a message she was planting for the real Martha to remember later, if everything worked out.