S.On.N.Y.
Basics
Race: Visually human, but a little bit of everything, really....
Age: 22
Height: 6'1
Weight: 140 lbs
Main personality points: Modest, polite, friendly. Self-depreciating to the point of an inferiority complex.  Shy.

Ok, so here's the thing.  Argents aren't necessarily better or worse than humans.  Two Argents, three opinions and all that.  It really was only a matter of time before one decided to make a baby.  From scratch.  And if you're going that far, might as well give him every possible advantage in the world.  Or every world.  Trouble was, Menshnaffit got a lot wrong; even putting the chosen surname first instead of last on the legal papers and....bother.  Mistakes are always made in the first draft; better luck next time.  The second version worked better, Portia Annabeth Walker, looking far less misshapen, unintelligent, and otherwise unbearable than her 'brother,' her mental gifts both powerful and precise -  she is a beauty in every sense of the world.  Well.  At least Walker turned out roughly symmetrical, when the comparatively idiotic youth doesn't make that inane face.

Menshnaffit didn't discard Walker like the failed experiment he was.  Not right away, at least.  He saw the boy properly schooled in all the things a boy needed to know, gave Walker his every living need, and waited dutifully until Walker's sixteenth 'birthday' to banish the embarrassing failure out into the great city with a fair shot at proper survival.  After all, Walker is hardly suitably to be seen in public, let alone as Menshnaffit's creature.  All those misaligned angles, his stiff and unwieldy limbs, that unsettling pallor.  Truly, downright hideous.  Bulky, unusually sharpen teeth, bizarre angles in his face, and the hair - the hair!  Poor wretch.  Unless one happens to be among the relative minority in the universe that happens to subscribe to a particularly niche ideal of anatomy, Walker is at best tolerable.  Otherwise, he's perhaps passable.

No, that's not quite it.

By human and Atlantean standards, Walker is gut-wrenchingly, heart-breakingly, show-stoppingly, 'slap me silly and call me Susan,' head-over-heels-over-the-moon-and-back-again, hauntingly, achingly sheik.  Like Helen of Troy and Adonis had a son.  The sort of attractive that causes automobile accidents, because drivers can't bear to tear their eyes off him.  The sort of handsome that leaves folks fumbling over their words if not entirely speechless, and dreaming about him for days.  A perfect 6'1, lean, fit,...that smile, those eyes, those cheekbones....

It wasn't hard for Walker to land on his feet, unlucky as it felt to him.  Once beyond Menshnaffit's abode, everyone seemed to be so nice to him.  In the span of an hour, he was 'adopted' by an upstanding factory owner and businessman, Colin Germane.  Yes, that Colin Germane.  In the span of the next day, along with an army of barbers and tailors, transformed Walker into one of the most fashionable gentlemen in the city.  It really was all too generous.  Mr. Germane didn't even ask anything of Walker at first, though after Walker had settled in some started asking him to run papers and parcels every now and then, then attend some business meetings, gradually easing Walker into an administrative role within one of Germane's companies.  It became largely routine; breakfast and coffee at home, then Walker would fly the two of them across town to the office.  Mr. Germane would do whatever it was he did, and Walker would help him keep an eye on things.  In the evenings, Walker would tinker around, and Mr. Germane would either read a book or watch him, either way pouring them both a finger or two of brandy or schnapps.  Holidays and birthdays meant large, extravagant parties, which police were savvy enough to look the other way for the large orders of imported alcohols.  It was all very routine for several years.  Clockwork.  Comfortable.  Safe.

Boring.