Prologue.
Somewhere in California, USA
Yesterday morning.
"So you're telling me you're wizards from another world," Investigator Blakely said dryly. Two usually-immortal researchers, one glorified administrator, and a lesser god nodded. Most of them were neutralized in some way, shape, or form—be it restrained, stuck, or otherwise incapacitated. One of the researchers was dangling from the ceiling, held aloft by suspenders that were working in conjunction with a pair of plaid shorts.
"While technically incorrect, the gist of the matter ought to be self-evident." Ordinarily, the lesser god possessed the social charm and grace of a slighted honey badger, and he made no effort to begin improvement now.
Experience spared the investigator intimidation which may or may not have actually been warranted as she stared down at the mess of serial law offenders sprawled before her. "I'm guessing that's why I've got several reports that one of you was riding a bona fide dinosaur down the interstate like it was a motorcycle." She said this with a face that was painstakingly blank, except for being scrunched up around the edges, as if she had thought about this at length and come to the grand decision to act as if it wasn't that unusual, for the sake of her continued sanity.
"That may be true, but they are practically one and the same," the administrator rebutted as the shugo language potion helpfully defined "motorcycle" as being a term synonymous with "airspike". "We made sure to follow the corresponding traffic codes."
"Destruction of Stonehenge?"
"The destruction of Stonehenge was a minor inconvenience," said the lesser god. "It's not our fault that you Earthlings are incapable of building minimally stable transdimensional rift foci. It would have exploded on its own eventually."
"And what about the wedding?"
One of the two daevas, the one hanging from the ceiling, perked up at the idea. The heavy-duty fan he was attached to spun gently.
"There was a wedding?"
"Technically, there was a wedding attempt," the inspector corrected. "As well as a hospital bombing, the destruction of the most public and private property I've seen in my career, unlawful possession of a wide assortment of weapons, multiple counts of breaking and entering, breaking and entering into a federally restricted area, physical assault, insider trading, loitering, arson, a yacht hijacking, impersonation of a federal officer, and," Blakely paused to take a breath. "-illegal entry into the country. For starters."
"I rather liked the yacht," the glorified administrator said sadly.
"And I didn't use actual bombs that time," the daeva on the ceiling immediately clarified as the fan spun counter-clockwise.
The glorified administrator and the one remaining soldier were the only ones who looked remotely concerned about their predicament.
"I know it might look...bad," the daeva on the floor impersonating FBI officer Jacqueline Daniels began, "-but it was mostly an accident. We can let bygones be bygones, right? No harm, no foul?"
That was precisely the wrong thing to say, because there was in fact much harm, much foul.
"That's not for me to decide," the inspector replied flatly. "All you can do is pray that you get deported instead of extradited."
The administrator coughed.
"Well, you see," he said, "-that may be a bit of a problem…"