Imagine the ultimate weapon. Clever-brained monkeys thought to use radiation to pacify cities, leaving machines and concrete to inhabit at some uncertain future date. Amateurs. Cartoon super gods bring physics itself to a screeching halt, flinging human bodies from the face of the earth. Water remains. Great, hundred-year old trees remain. Industry remains. An entire world devoid of intelligent and dexterous primates, ready for settlement. 
Now imagine again that same weapon had created a centrifugal super-force that called these lost bodies back home in the likeness of their would-be destroyers. Cartoon super gods giving birth to a plethora of divinely clothed children, primed to retake the homeland of their fathers and mothers. To rest again in those tall trees and talk curiously about the days when mankind used letters to communicate the contents of their souls. They would release the animals from their horrific captivity, feasting daily upon the bounty of the sun itself. Washing the stains of their capes in molten rock they would love one another like titans. Their games would be visible from orbit. This until the day that their creators returned, finding Goldilocks had eaten their porridge and slept in their beds. Who would win in the war to follow? Would it matter?
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