The Darthvegan's latest bi-pilot had just entered the control room of the infamous spaceship for their final test. Fifteen years of nonstop training had all come down to this one moment. If they failed, they would be cast down to a mere underling, managing meaningless, repetitive jobs alongside several others, including those the Darthvegans had captured for various reasons. The room itself was a dull, steel gray, with a single clear window at the front, composed of valuable opaque crystal to survive various direct hits with weaponry without showing so much as a scratch. The rest of the room (sans the floor and roof, of course) was covered in buttons, switches and levers, all unlabeled, with no indication as to what they did. They would have to do whatever requested of them by memory, and memory alone.

Each button, switch and lever in the room had a unique, sometimes ludicrously specific function, and all 18,412 on one side of the room were perfectly mirrored to the other side, as to allow two bi-pilots to run the ship without worrying about running into each other. The only button that wasn't actually mirrored to the other side was a rather large red button sitting directly on the upper-middle. Even though it's placement and look would suggest a self-destruct button (even with previous bi-pilots jokingly calling it a "suicide switch"), it did not actually destroy the ship. Rather, it would unceremoniously send a distress signal to every other room nearby, and to all guards, that an unauthorized user had gotten into the control room, and that all guards and those combat trained (who were all 9,000 Darthvegans that one would ever hear about) should come to the control room at once. The mindset was that, if someone were to sneak in somehow, they would go for the big shiny red button, for that usually would cause quick destruction of the ship, not themselves.

The bi-pilot began to scan the room for the list of required actions, which was placed on a small set of orange-ish buttons on the left side of the room. It said to, in order, tilt the ship 180° clockwise on it's axis, shut off Turret Bay Gamma (and force an override), prepare all engines, move the ship (visibly) forward 1,000 meters, re-enable Turret Bay Gamma, and ask that a spinach roll be sent up in eight minutes, and finally, repeat all of the actions on the opposite side of the room, in that order. It was a modest set of tasks, which could be accomplished in seconds given the control system, if the pilot could remember.

The first task was easy; all they needed to do was pull the second switch to the right, and flip the little green switch below it on the side control panel. Upon doing so, the ship slowly tilted 180° clockwise, just as desired. When it stopped moving, the bi-pilot moved onto the next step. This would require a bit more effort. They moved over to the far left end of the front control panel. In front of them was a large selection of silver switches, arranged in the shape of a rectangle. The bi-pilot carefully flipped the proper switch near the center of the collection, then the one all the way up in there upper-right, and then the one in the same column as the first, one above the bottom. They then flipped the last needed switch, on the far left of the panel. Turret Bay Gamma was disabled, and the turrets wouldn't be able to override the command until the control room lifted it. It was onto the engines, a very simple, yet specific command. The bi-pilot directed their attention to the small set of orange-ish buttons where they found the note, and pressed each button. All engines were warming up. They waited a few seconds, and then moved back to the front panel. Moving the ship forward would be fine, but moving it forward by such a small amount was far harder than it seemed. Though general movement was controlled by a set of easy-to-use levers, precise movement was far more difficult. Said movement was done with two silver, circular pads placed under the "suicide switch" (though not close enough to where accidentally activating said switch was a risk), placed close enough together to allow a gauge to determine how far the ship had travelled using the pads, which also defined a line where the room was basically symmetrical from, so one bi-pilot could use both switches for incredibly precise adjustments. The pilot gently pushed the pad on the left side down, knowing that 1,000 meters using said pad could be crossed in exactly one second of just barely touching it, which they did. Checking the gauge revealed that the pilot was just on the nose of 1,000 meters. Breathing a sigh of relief, the bi-pilot continued to work.

All that was left to do before mirroring the process on the other side of the room was to order the roll. Now, all they had to do was...

The bi-pilot had forgotten exactly what they needed to do to order the spinach roll. Was it a lever? Did it have something to do with a sequence of buttons? What now? The bi-pilot started to pace back and forth along the side panel, desperately trying to remember which operation was needed to order food to be brought to the control room, let alone have anything brought to the room. The bi-pilot sat down on the floor for a moment (the two seats usually there had been moved out to discourage break-taking, for this process needed to be done quickly), trying to think over the controls. Upon getting back up, the pilot remembered that it had something to do with one of the levers, taking several thousand buttons and switches out of the equation. It also was located in the very back of the room, along with three identical ones.

Moving quickly, knowing that they would be disqualified if they took too long on any one step. In an act of desperation, they pulled the first switch that seemed appropriate, only knowing that they had a one-in-three chance of getting it right. They paused for a bit, waiting for someone to come in to tell them that they had failed. Nobody did. They looked up at the switch, and realized that what they had pulled was the right switch, revealing a set of, surprisingly, labeled black buttons, with a little menu on the side. 037 was for a spinach roll. 0. 3. 7. Enter. Time until order was ready was done in four digits, like a 24-hour clock. 0. 0. 0. 8. Enter. After a beep of confirmation, the bi-pilot knew they had a chance.

Repeating the actions on the right side of the room was easy enough, and was accomplished by the new bi-pilot quickly. The test was over. The bi-pilot had done it, the Darthvegan General would come in soon, and congratulate them on passing the test. Right? They waited. And waited. And waited some more.

After waiting for three minutes, which felt like an eternity, nobody had come into the room, nothing had happened. A buzzer went off. And then silence. That buzzer meant the bi-pilot had failed the test. Why? They had done everything properly, they had tilted the ship, shut off and overridden the turret bay, prepared the engines, moved forward 1,000 meters, ordered a sp-

"Re-enable Turret Bay Gamma"

That was it. They had completely forgotten, and thus failed, to re-enable Turret Bay Gamma, which would've put Darthvega in severe danger in a combat situation. It was over. There would not be another chance. All of their training wouldn't be worth anything, and another set of bi-pilots was already prepared to take the test. And since it was such a grave mistake, they wouldn't even be able to retake the course from the beginning. They would be lucky if they got a task that was even worth anything to the ship, or even anybody on it.

The once was bi-pilot, head down in shame, walked slowly out of the control room, never to return.