A/N: I'll try to update regularly, but I can't make any promises. (I'm actually putting off finishing a mountain of work to write this chapter – o wicked, wicked me…) In case the title didn't tip you off, I recommend that you read "Hollywood Argonauts" before diving into this story, as there are quite a few things that won't make sense otherwise.

Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious. If I did, it would be pretentious, not very funny, and watched by roughly two dozen people weekly.

Since remotest antiquity, Mount Vesuvius has been both a boon and a danger to the peoples of the Italian region of Campania. Its many eruptions over the centuries have made its slopes some of the most fertile agricultural land in all of Europe; this was the breadbasket that made possible ancient Rome's rise from minor city-state to world imperial power. But those who live in the shadow of Vesuvius can never permit themselves to forget that the mighty volcano has unleashed untold destruction before, and may well do so again one day. Not for nothing did Virgil choose this deceptively beautiful region as the home for his portal to the underworld.

Now, all signs pointed to an eruption that would dwarf the last major one, in 1944. As the mountain rumbled and black smoke poured from its cone, panicked people hurried to their cars, to bus stations, train stations, harbors, and airports, racing to evacuate the danger zone. The beleaguered Carabinieri, Italy's national military police, fought to maintain some semblance of order, as the narrow, winding mountain roads that ran along the Bay of Naples were bottled up at every turn by trucks or overturned scooters, their drivers screaming and gesticulating at one another. Although it was October, and the height of the tourist season had long passed, there were still hordes of Americans, Britons, Germans, Japanese, and visitors of every other nationality, whose terror was only exacerbated by their lack of familiarity with the area. They thronged the ticket counters at Naples' Capodimonte Airport and waved fistfuls of Euros at the ticket agents, hoping against hope to squeeze themselves onto the last flights out before air travel to and from the area shut down completely. Every time the ground trembled beneath their feet, their tempers grew, and blows were soon exchanged.

It was hardly a display of the best of humanity, although they could well be pardoned for giving in to the powerful instinct for self-preservation. But against this chaos, the few who remained stood out all the more boldly for their incredible bravery – or, from another point of view, foolhardiness. Such a one was Padre Antonio Villati, of Amalfi. His charge was to protect his town's cathedral, a monument of astonishing beauty dating back to the eleventh century (in its exterior) and the seventeenth (in its interior); attached to it was a museum containing immensely valuable medieval chalices, reliquaries, and a bishop's miter woven from gold and silver, all of which, Padre Villati knew, would be very tempting targets for looters. But far more important was the church's crypt, where the body of St. Andrew the Apostle, obtained from Constantinople in the fourteenth century, now rested. Villati had no intention of abandoning the saint who had watched over his little town for hundreds of years. He trusted that St. Andrew would protect him; but even if it was God's will that he perish, he was willing to pay that price.

With a great burst of muscular effort, he shut the enormous bronze doors leading to the steps outside and turned the key in the lock. He was alone in the cathedral; normally at this time of day there would be at least a handful of parishioners scattered among the pews, deep in prayer, and perhaps a tourist or two gawking at the ornately decorated ceiling and the paintings in the little side chapels. Normally, he would have enjoyed the uncharacteristic stillness, as being the ideal circumstance in which to commune with the Divine, but today it had an ominous edge to it.

He had no idea whether anyone still remained in the town below, but he assumed, reasonably enough, that nearly everyone had already fled. It came as an immense shock to him, therefore, when he heard the rhythmic thudding of dozens of footsteps outside. He went to the barred window and peered out.

From the piazza below, an entire army was ascending the steps. Purple creatures, dressed in loincloths, advancing in waves, maintaining perfect order. Creatures from another world? Demons? Padre Villati could not begin to guess. Their vanguard pounded on the doors.

The priest was (understandably) unnerved, but not yet terrified. So far as he could tell, the beings were unarmed, and without siege-engines or a battering ram, they were unlikely to be able to get into the church.

After a few minutes of futile banging, the creatures withdrew and moved to either side of the portico. Someone else – something else – was coming up the great staircase. A saddled beast, with a rider of the same species as the foot-soldiers, but dressed far more elaborately, in a scarlet cloak with gold epaulets. Their commander, he guessed.

The newcomer pulled up on the reins and halted his mount just in front of the bronze doors. He lifted his right hand, the palm of which began to glow with a swirling blue light.

The doors shuddered in their frame. The bars on the window through which Villati looked rattled. The priest jumped back, now thoroughly alarmed.

As the light intensified, the doors and window-bars began to warp and twist. It can't be! Villati thought. Is he using some sort of magnetism? This must surely be the work of the Devil. Lord Jesus, Mary mother of God, and all the saints, I beg your…

He had not yet managed to complete his thought when, with a horrific tearing sound, the window bars came loose. A moment later, the doors were ripped from their frame. The rider levitated them above his head, held them suspended for a moment, then clenched his fist – and they crumpled, like a crushed soda can, falling to the ground as a small, tightly packed bronze ball.

The commander rode into the cathedral at a slow, stately pace, his foot-soldiers thronging about him.

His steed was vaguely horse-like in its outlines, but there the resemblance ended. It was far bigger than the largest charger Villati had ever encountered, big enough, in fact, that its flanks knocked out part of the wall on either side as it squeezed through the doorframe. Its overly long head tapered to an anteater-like snout, while its elephantine legs ended, not in hooves, but in feet with long, flexible appendages, somewhere between toes and tentacles. It had no tail, no nose, and – he realized with a shock – no eyes either, only blank indentations in the face. Nearly every inch of its slate-gray body was covered in fine hairs, with the highest concentration – as long, proportionally, as cat's whiskers – around the tip of its snout. It reared and unleashed a strange, quavering cry.

Its rider locked eyes with Villati. The priest shuddered – never in his life had he seen so cold and vicious an expression. He remembered his grandfather's stories of Mussolini's Blackshirts, who reveled in violence and brutality, and thought they must have had this same look.

The being smiled, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. It was not a smile of affection, but of condescension, even contempt. And then, to Villati's utter disbelief, the creature lifted one long finger and drew it across its throat in a slashing motion.

Without realizing it, the being had made a horrible mistake. For while Antonio Villati was a man of God, and a firm believer that the meek shall inherit the Earth, he was also a longshoreman's son who had grown up in the Neapolitan slums, where weakness was fatal, personal honor was all-important, and slights were not to be left unavenged. Now that long-suppressed proud spirit took him over, and he hoisted a long iron brazier, swinging it like a baseball bat. The butt of it split the skull of one of the foot-soldiers, while the other end hit another creature in the stomach, leaving it doubled over and gasping for breath.

The commander's smile immediately turned into a grimace of mixed incredulity and rage. He gave a battle call, and the ranks of soldiers swarmed upon the priest.

Villati fought as valiantly as any man could have in such circumstances. It quickly became clear that the beings' short stature belied immense strength, but the priest's determination did not waver, even as he was forced back, inch by inch, toward the transept.

One of the soldiers drew a stone knife and slashed at Villati's chest. He dodged in time, but his movement created an opening for another opponent to punch him in the ribs. Bones cracked, and Villati bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

He was still on his feet, amazingly enough, but every blow he threw now brought him crippling pain. The alien commander seemed to sense his weakness, and, grinning once again, motioned to his men to close in for the kill.

So this is how I shall meet my maker. So be it. A death in defense of the house of God is a fine death indeed.

A woman's voice rang out: "Padre! Inchinati e copri gli orecchi!" Father! Get down and cover your ears!

There was no time to think, so, operating on pure instinct, he obeyed. An instant later, he was profoundly thankful that he had. For a young, dreadlocked black man, standing in the empty doorframe, screamed – no, that was not the right term; for a scream is born of either fear or anguish, and neither of those emotions was present in this man. Instead, the cry was pure power, supremely confident and unstoppable, sweeping all before it. Villati thought that Joshua's trumpets must have produced a very similar sound when they toppled the walls of Jericho.

A sonic shockwave raced through the cathedral. The creatures nearest the door were simply blown off their feet, sent flying into pews and pillars, as easily as if they had been caught in the path of a tsunami. Those around the crouching Padre Villati staggered, clutching their ears, from which, as the horrified priest watched, blood began to drip. The commander moaned, swayed, fainted.

The cry ceased. Before the remaining foot-soldiers could regain their senses, a lightning-fast, blurry something zigzagged through the nave and aisles, downing all its opponents with one blow apiece. At the same moment, the priest felt himself lifted into the air. He turned his head to see a young redheaded girl, carrying him without any apparent effort, gliding along on beautiful white wings.

"Chi sei? Da dove vieni? Sei tu un' angelo?" He cried. Who are you? Where did you come from? Are you an angel?

"Huh? Did you call me Angelo? That's a boy's name, silly! Tee hee hee!"

Padre Villati could not understand English any more than the girl whom he addressed could understand Italian, so he simply nodded, his bafflement unalleviated.

The battle was not over yet. The enormous horse-thing, driven mad by the sonic cry, bucked and thrashed blindly, hurling its unconscious commander from the saddle. It stampeded toward the altar, crushing everything in its path. "No!" Padre Villati screamed.

"HrrrrAAAAGH!" A comely brunette leapt into the air as if shot from a catapult, her head narrowly missing the ceiling. She dropped onto the monster's back, slamming it to the ground with such force that the marble floor cracked and the entire church shook slightly. When the half-dead beast tried to raise its head, the girl threw a thunderous punch to its jaw; the priest winced as he heard the thing's neck snap.

Then all was still once more in the cathedral. The winged girl gently set Padre Villati down by the entrance. A taller, dark-haired girl in black clothing approached him, hand extended in greeting; he shook it, still somewhat dazed. The girl was clearly American, but, in what he sincerely hoped would be the last surprise he would have to face that day, she spoke to him in fluent Italian: "Are you all right, Father? You're not hurt, are you?"

"…No, no. I'm fine. Those creatures…they tried to kill me. You saved me. You saved the cathedral. God bless you all." He kissed her hand, tears filling his eyes.

The girl looked distinctly uncomfortable at this display of emotion. As soon as his grip weakened, she withdrew her hand and took a quick step back. "Glad – um – glad to be of service." She turned to a spindly, frizzy-haired boy who stood behind her at the top of the steps and said, in English, "All clear, Robbie?"

He swept the horizon with his eyes, then closed them and pricked up his ears, listening intently, and finally sniffed the wind. "I can't detect any creatures in a ten-mile radius. We should be safe for the time being."

"All right." Turning back to the priest, she slipped back into Italian: "There are no more creatures around now, but it's not safe here. You need to get away."

"And abandon my church? Leave the Apostle to his fate? Never!"

She sighed. "Okay, fine, have it your way. But stay on your guard."

/

Jade West couldn't believe she'd found someone more stubborn than Tori. Glancing very quickly into the priest's mind (Beck had gently but clearly informed her that people would regard it as an invasion of privacy if she probed them telepathically without their consent), she saw that he was completely serious.

"Jade!" André called from the side aisle. "I've got one conscious over here. You want to try to talk to him?"

Leaving the obstinate priest, who stooped to begin cleaning up the rubble, Jade went to where her friend stood over a dazed, mumbling creature.

"Can you speak its language?" André asked.

She scanned it with her thoughts. "No."

"I thought you knew every language now."

"I do. But this thing has a voice-box completely different from humans' – there's no way I can reproduce the sounds it makes. I should still be able to understand it, though, and maybe I can make myself understood telepathically."

André nodded and stood aside. Jade knelt and laid her hand on the creature's forehead, which was surprisingly cool to the touch.

-Do you hear me?

-Yes, it replied.

-Why are you doing this?

-Our bodies are not our own.

-What does that mean?

-He controls us. He makes us kill.

-Who?

-Azlon-rath.

-I don't understand. Who is Azlon-rath? What does he gain from this destruction?

-I am so afraid…

-It's all right. We're not going to harm you. Just answer my questions, please.

-It is not you I fear – it is he. He knows that you have touched my mind. He will not allow this to continue. He will…

An agonizing shock ran through Jade's brain, forcing her to break telepathic contact. The being began to convulse violently. Foam dribbled from its mouth; blood poured from its every orifice. Within moments, it had ceased to breathe.

Jade and André exchanged troubled looks.

"What did you hear?"

"He's a puppet. They all are. And whoever's pulling their strings knows what we're up to."

"Then what's our next step?"

"Well, we have two choices. We can wait for more of them to show up, and keep fighting until we keel over from exhaustion; or we can take the battle to where they come from."

"And that would be…?"

Hesitantly, Jade whispered: "Hell."