Look, we didn't ask to be saved. Every 111 orbits, our population finishes ovipositing in the fertile ash at our Great Volcanic Goddess’s base, then shuffles to our mass death in her bubbling crater, honored and exalted that our flesh offerings will guarantee her next eruption. Which in turn ensures our eggs—our heirs—will develop and hatch in the lava flow. But you fools had to land here, in your little silver ship, and stop us just as we were about to plunge to our glorious, fiery deaths. Now our eggs won’t hatch; you've single-handedly extincted our species. Thanks for nothing.