Thrift had taken cover nearby.
"I think..." the junkion pants, "this calls for an application of the Starscream Maneuver."
The blasts hit Nova's chest, knocking him back and throwing off the aim of his cannons. The eight beams spin wildly around the forge before the Prime deactivates and retracts the weapons. He lands on the ground, preparing another attack, but Corona seizes this moment to leap at him from the side.
Unfortunately, Nova sees this out of the corner of his eye, and whirls around to seize the prophet by the neck. Corona grunts as Nova thrusts her against a wall with an echoing clang.
"Oh, don't worry, miss," the disgraced Prime says darkly, drawing a massive sword from his back. Corona emits a furious growl as she deploys a silver blade from her wrists and thrusts it into Nova's chest. He grimmaces, but his new powers kept him alive even as the blade pierced his spark.
"Everything you've foreseen will come true," Nova continues. "I'll save our people, yes... just not in the way you might have been expecting."
Nova thrusts his sword into Corona's sternum, and the prophet's strangled cry could be heard over the screech of tearing metal as the blade pierces through her back and into the wall behind her. Her white optics flicker as she goes limp. The surviving pilgrims unleash their fury upon Nova, but their weapons do little damage to his armor.
The disgraced Prime withdraws his sword, now slick with energon, and drops Corona onto the floor, he glares at his foes, his optics cold with murderous intent.
Below the Splitter brothers, the idyllic scenery of the island had been transformed into a nightmarish scene like one of the Great War's many battlefields. Much of the city below the spaceport had been reduced to smoldering rubble, and the rest of it was likely to fall if nothing could be done- the defenses that the pilgrims had managed to raise simply weren't enough to stall the onslaught.
The spaceport, with most of its mechanisms still inert, save for the ones repairing Salvation, withstood its share of the barrage. Ancient cybertronian structures such as this could withstand eons of neglect and exposure to the elements; the Twenty-sixth Fleet hadn't the firepower to bring it down quickly.
Salvation groans as waves of plasmafire fall upon her. In her current state, the Fleetcarrier was vulnerable, unable to fight back against the enemy ships and their assault.