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Sunstreaker doesn't like the idea, but once convinced he won't be the recipient of the prank, he allows Sideswipe to take his rather large can of bleach.
The same bleach that reprograms color nanites to leave them a pure white color, something useful when trying to change them into the opposite color the code of which they're already carrying, like red into green, or yellow to purple. It's easier to deal with code-less nanites than coded ones, especially when certain color codes will get rewritten by the original if they are too much against the base code.
Of course, Sideswipe immediately empties the can in the solvent supply for the main wash racks.
Why, poor Gears and Huffer had been complaining non-stop about them having been dyed Sunstreaker's shade of bright yellow, and how hard it was to get rid of the paint despite the wash racks taking most of it away. So, this is just a gesture of good will from a sympathetic Autobot.
No matter that said ‘sympathetic Autobot’ had been the one to put the can of paint on top of the rafter in a precarious enough position that it had ‘accidentally’ fallen on top of the Minibots.
So, bleach. That will help get rid of the stubborn human-made paint.
And if it has the side-effect of turning them white as snow… oops.
Sideswipe snickers, walking calmly to the Rec Room after his ‘good deed’ of the day.
And does a double take when he sees the targets of his prank sitting calmly with Brawn and Cliffjumper, no longer yellow.
“Hey guys. I thought you said you'd go back to the wash racks after patrol to get rid of the paint?” he asks them, too curious to try to be inconspicuous and sound innocent.
Not that anyone doubts he was behind the prank, but still.
He gets a couple of deadpanned glares at that, but Gears immediately replaces his with a smug smirk.
“Sparkplug told us to visit him once we finished patrol, because he had those cans of solvent especially for car paint, and he didn't mind letting us use them. So, we did. And no more yellow!” he explains happily, and Sideswipe must concede defeat this time.
No more yellow and no white. Oh, well, someone else will—
“Sideswipe!”
The front-liner yelps at the irate roar, as does the whole Rec Room, before whirling around.
There, on the door, is one really pissed off Prowl.
Completely white, except for the pale blue optics.
Why, he didn't even know his faceplate could distort into such an angry snarl. And his doorwings, spread high and wide menacingly, are vibrating so hard with rage that they're blurring around the edges with a soft hum.
Sideswipe, you're deactivated.
“Hey, Prowl, nice look, that shiny white suits you, really, have you thought about keeping it, because it'll be useful too, white doesn't heat as badly as black, and being in a desert is way too much heat already, so it'd do you good and—”
Sideswipe's babbling cuts short when he realizes Prowl doesn't look angry anymore but stunned instead. And with his doorwings now lying against his back, Sideswipe can see why.
There are two more completely white Doorwingers standing in the entrance, looking at the scene with curious sky-blue optics and cold calculating ones.
Bluestreak and Prowl. The real Prowl. Which means…
“Did you really think I was Prowl?” the Praxian at the front, the previously angered one, asks in disbelief and slight amusement, a smirk growing on his faceplate.
The voice is more than enough indicator of who he is.
“Smokescreen?” Sideswipe squeaks, literally squeaks, before the mech he thinks is Prowl steps forward with an indignant snort.
“Of course not. I am Smokescreen,” he speaks, and his voice is identical to the first mech's.
But then, the third Doorwinger moves next to the other two, shaking his helm as if he was dealing with newsparks. There's an amused smile on his faceplate.
“Prowl, Bluestreak, stop that, you're scaring Sideswipe,” he tells them, and his voice is also Smokescreen's.
Before he has time to process what he's seeing, the other two white mechs straighten into a no-nonsense known stance, doorwings squaring at their backs and faceplates turning emotionless while their optics shine disapprovingly down at their third.
“Who are you calling Bluestreak?” one asks, and that voice…
“It is obvious I am Prowl,” the other adds.
The third straightens, mirroring the other two, and Sideswipe can feel his legs start to tremble—
“No, I am Prowl.”
And three identical mechs suddenly turn to stare at the front-liner with piercing and calculating icy blue optics.
“My office, now.”
Sideswipe crashes.
Jazz is sprawled on the floor of the Repair Bay chortling softly, where he fell in his attack of laughter. Ratchet is looking over not only Sideswipe, but Gears, Cliffjumper, Huffer, Brawn, Powerglide, Sunstreaker and Red Alert, all of them in stasis.
Optimus is sitting on one of the only clear berths, with an equally stunned Ironhide next to him and Blaster leaning against the wall by their side, a large smile on his faceplate.
Prowl, Bluestreak and Smokescreen, completely white but for their blue optics, stare at them nonplussed, curious and amused, respectively.
“I didn't know Doorwingers could modulate their voice boxes that much,” the Prime finally lets out, still reeling from the security recording they had to watch when they got to the Repair Bay.
It was the only way to explain the ‘casualties’ and the mass of stunned and flabbergasted mechs outside the doors, waiting to catch a glimpse of the white ones.
“It takes some practice,” Prowl concedes with a nod, and Bluestreak snickers softly while Smokescreen gives the youngest a reproving look.
“How did this happen?” Ironhide asks after he shakes the astonishment off, gesturing to the three white mechs.
“I'm guessing Sideswipe wanted to pull a prank, like the one with Gears and Huffer a while back, the one that turned them yellow? Though it was a nice yellow, so sunny and bright and like Sunstreaker's and do you think Sunstreaker got mad at that? Because it must have been really annoying for him to see other mechs with a yellow as beautiful as his, since he gets really mad at sunflowers because they're yellow too, even if sunflowers aren't really guilty of that, it isn't as if they can choose to be that yellow, and they have black seeds too, but they're gray and white when the humans roast them, and inside they're actually a brownish gray color, and does it have a different name? Because I'd like to know what that brownish gray is called, it's a soothing color, just like pastel blue, and poppy red and—”
“Thank you, Bluestreak,” Optimus quickly cuts when he realizes the monologue is no longer related to what he first asked.
Also, because Jazz is once more writhing with loud guffaws on the floor, which is really beginning to worry both the Prime and the Chief Medical Officer, if the look Ratchet gives the saboteur is any indication.
“How long until you have them back to normal, Ratch?” Blaster asks, amused even at Jazz's antics, though there's a bit of bafflement in his optics as he looks at the mech on the floor.
“Do you know how long it will take to repaint them? It'll be easier to let their systems deal with it. Just give them color-coded bandanas, or something, until their color schemes start to show up again in a couple orns,” the Medic answers, annoyed, as he stomps to where Jazz is hiccupping with a smile large enough to split his faceplate in two. “And you, stop laughing before you break something!”
“Two orns?” the Prime repeats, optics paling in surprise. “But that's two human weeks!”
“Cool your circuits, Ops,” Jazz cuts from the floor, though he gets up an instant later with his large smile still on his faceplate. “Let the Jazzmeister teach you,” he adds, and to their confusion, he strolls to the Doorwingers and points at Prowl. “Smokescreen,” he states before gesturing to who they thought was Smokescreen. “Bluestreak,” he names, and finally, throws an arm over the Praxian who had babbled about colors a moment before. “And Prowler.”
Silence.
And then, ‘Bluestreak’ gives the saboteur hanging off him a well-known rueful smile that is not Bluestreak's.
“Spoil my fun, why don't you, Jazz,” he answers in Prowl's voice.
Optimus feels grateful for his facemask because, while he's gawking like the rest, at least it doesn't show.
“What – How—” Blaster stutters, looking between the three Doorwingers, whose stances and amused smiles now resemble those of the mechs bearing the designations Jazz gave them.
“Smokey has squared doorwings, and Prowler's chevron is sharper and not attached to his helm,” the Third in Command explains with a large smile while pointing at the details.
After a reboot of his optics, Optimus finally sees the differences. And with a tired sigh, covers his faceplate with a servo, feeling a growing processor-ache.
“Did you really have to do that?” the Prime asks to the room at large.
“How many times can we run such a prank without fear of retribution? We are the victims of Sideswipe's prank, after all,” Bluestreak answers with his best innocent look, which is quite good, earning some chuckles from the rest of Autobots.
“Turnabout is fair play,” Smokescreen points out as Prowl shrugs Jazz off.
“As soon as Sunstreaker is online again, I will ask him to get most of our color schemes back with human paint. He can get to recoding the nanites on doorwings and chevron a bit at a time. By the time he's done, there should be more than enough of our color schemes back to be recognizable,” Prowl adds calmly, receiving pouts and whines from the other two Doorwingers.
“But human paint itches,” Bluestreak protests.
While the other Autobots grimace in sympathy, Prowl is unmovable.
“Besides, the solvent from the wash-racks will wash away most of it when we clean up, so what's the point?” Smokescreen points out, and that gets a dangerous smirk from the Second in Command.
“The point is that Sunstreaker will be forced to use lesser paints daily, and deal with recoding all your doorwings and most of mine, because his dear brother's prank backfired. Who do you think he'll vent his frustrations on?”
They all shiver, and Prowl's smirk grows, pleased and eerily amused.
“You, Prowler, are evil,” Jazz snickers, and at the nod from the white mech, the rest break down laughing.
Poor Sideswipe.