Zachary did notice with the slight turning of his head how hard a time his acquaintance seemed to be having of standing up and managing a slow walk. A more gentlemanly soul would have offered her his own body to lean on, but Zachary was not only a far cry from a gentleman, he knew the repercussions if he did offer such a thing. His body was as cold as refrigerated metal, and he didn't need some girl's recoiling from it to make him feel worse than he already did about himself and his, 'condition.' Still, he did allow himself the small courteous act of slowing his already sluggish pace so that Liberty would have less trouble keeping up.
But at the talk of his name, he all but stopped dead in his tracks, and there was a definite edge to both his face and voice. "My name is Zachary. Nobody calls me Zach, not ever." Then the edge was gone, almost as quickly as it had come, and Zachary's expression was once more that of being calm and slightly bored. "I'll call you what you like, but Liberty sounds better to me." In answer, he held out his arm as he continued to walk, and like sand pouring through the opening of an hourglass, a measure of ink detached itself from his ratty black vest, revealing to all who would look that the vest itself was not made of cloth at all, but of ink. It collected on his hand all the way to his elbow, pooling until it formed a long glove with droplets of ink dripping from his fingers and splashing on the floor, where they sat for a moment before slithering after Zachary like tiny snakes, a few even leaping after him like tiny black fleas, eager to be absorbed back into him.
"I can make things from ink. I can mold ink, flick ink, cry ink, BLEED ink. I more or less AM ink." He didn't yet mention his ability to become an inky puddle; it was in his opinion one of his most valuable abilities, and he wasn't about to go blabbing it.
