I Never Asked for Much

I'm an orphan.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

No offense intended to anyone — I'm not trying to attack or demean anyone here, myself included. It's simply the bare fact that my family registry has exactly one name on it.

Since when? According to the director, I was found wrapped in swaddling cloth, laid out in front of the orphanage gate. So I suppose that would be... shortly after newborn, all the way up to this very moment.

That said, the director told me the cloth I was wrapped in was actually quite fine, and that there was a name tag pinned to it. So I try to believe my parents didn't abandon me because they wanted to abandon me.

Anyway, all things considered, I think I've done objectively well for someone who started with nothing. Sure, my menu of career options was a little shorter than other people's — but a man in my position has to make certain compromises to survive in this treacherous society, doesn't he?

"Sen! Ior! I, Lee Tae-oh, and 241 others, as proud cadets of the Republic of Korea Air Force Academy, shall be a model to our peers, shall conduct ourselves with dignity—"

While everyone else was enjoying their youth on university campuses, I enrolled in an academy that fed me, clothed me, housed me, paid me, and never let me leave. It was suffocating. First-years got one leave pass a month, and even when we walked outside, we did it in step, in full dress uniform, alongside our fellow cadets.

Alcohol, cigarettes, dating — all obviously forbidden.

And yet, honestly? It wasn't all bad for me.

"Hey, Tae-oh. What the hell is that you're drinking?"

"What's it look like? Bacchus, you idiot, Bacchus. Never seen a guy take an energy tonic before?"

"It's just... when did guys who chug Bacchus start smelling like booze, I really want to know."

"So you're not going to drink it?"

"...Let's just chug it before the drill instructor gets here."

"Ah, and let your big brother teach you something — use the 2080 mint toothpaste, not the bamboo salt. Bamboo salt doesn't cover the smell. That's how people get caught."

"You absolute lunatic, the instructors and professors need to know who you really are. This is our battalion commander's pick for cadet?"

It was suffocating — and that's exactly why people appeared in my life, closer than family, dearer than friends.

After commissioning, on a rat's-tail of a Korean officer's salary, I opened a new installment savings account on top of the one I already had. Someday, when I was comfortable, I'd buy a shabby old apartment, renovate it, and then...

"You're insane."

"Hey, hey — if you give me that look too, I genuinely can't go on living. Love for my comrades, love for my country."

"Then stop standing out and live like a normal person, for once! You've got a good head on your shoulders — what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Who's more solid than me? You should quit dumping money into penny stocks and open an installment account like I said. Compound interest is the only way to double your money without losing it."

My classmate, squatting beside me in the flowerbed that could've belonged to any unit in the country, puffing away at his cigarette, shook his head slowly from side to side.

"Tae-oh. Listen, man. I'm worried about you. Seriously. Do you copy? Over."

"Why. You think the old man's going to cut me?"

"Yes! Exactly! You know full well what the Corps Commander is capable of, and you still pull this? Early release from the National Defense University is a golden ticket! Get a wing commander's recommendation, coast for a few years, and you're riding a smooth elevator all the way to general's stars! Why in God's name won't you go?"

Instead of answering, I worked my jaw back and forth, bobbing the cigarette between my teeth up and down.

"I'm not doing the whole 'general' thing."

"'The whole—' what? Do you know how many people burn their eyes out just dreaming of that thing you just called 'the whole thing'?"

"That's their business. I'm not doing it."

"You lunatic. If the top graduate of our class, the guy with an airborne tab, won't become a general, who the hell will?"

"They can give it to the runner-up. Or third place."

While my classmate clutched his head in anguish, I simply flopped back onto the ground, tilted my head up, and looked at the sky.

A clear sky. A few clouds drifting idly by.

General. A general, huh.

"I'll be satisfied as a colonel. You go collect all the stars."

"What if they force you into early retirement?"

"Then I'll just get a job at a civilian airline."

I'm grateful to this country. To this military. That's why I serve so diligently.

No slacking. Taking good care of my trainees. Running hard through every exercise.

But gratitude aside — have I ever, even once, lived the way I wanted?

"Hey."

"What."

"You know why I came to the Air Force Academy instead of the Army's?"

"Beats me."

"Because up there, you can ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fly free. No conditions attached."

If I'd wanted stars on my shoulders, I'd have gone to the Army academy, where the billets come easiest.

Being a soldier feeds me, no question about that. But it was never the job I truly wanted.

I'm not some masochist who enjoys being shackled and deprived of freedom.

If I went to the National Defense University, I'd spend a year without flying, memorize thousands of pages of that abominable Ministry of Defense paperwork, and by the time I made general, I'd be playing petty mind games with my own classmates. I could see it all plain as day.

Wasn't my life already one where nothing went my way — starting with being abandoned the moment I was born?

I wanted to hold a position because *I* chose it. I didn't want to grow cold and distant from the classmates I treasured, all for the sake of competing for stars we'd leave behind anyway.

Just once — just once, instead of scrambling and clawing my way through survival, I wanted to live as I pleased.

Right. It's not like I asked for much.

I didn't ask for much.

"I didn't! Damn it! I didn't ask for much!!! You goddamn—"

"Shut your mouth!!! You worthless piece of junk!"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I hammered it with everything I had, yet the Lockheed Martin instrument panel inside the fighter's cockpit remained perfectly, infuriately intact.

The speaker screaming that damned, ear-splitting noise — working fine. The LEDs strobing maddening red — working fine.

Bullshit. The one thing that can't break is broken — the engine — and this is what decides to keep working?

I know. I'm losing altitude. Even if I can't see outside the cockpit through this raging storm, I can feel the gravity pressing down on my body growing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heavier by the second.

If I don't steady my breathing, my vision will black out soon. I've raged as much as I can rage. The situation is a disaster — fine, it's a disaster — but I need to get my head back in order.

I raised my hand and keyed the comm mic again.

"Control."

"Control. VMC unavailable — I can't see outside. Tell me what's beneath me."

"If you're going to lie, sir, at least don't get caught. I may be many things, but I'm not stupid enough to buy that."

A short burst of static hissed through the radio.

It's terrifying.

The altimeter keeps falling. Seconds left, now.

"Maintaining nose attitude and visual reference as long as possible. Will attempt... ejection."

The throttle isn't answering.

Raindrops striking the canopy can't keep pace with the speed, leaving only ghosting streaks as they vanish.

I keep conscious control of my breathing. Let my attention slip for even a moment, and my vision goes dark.

Only that. Of all five senses, only that ear-splitting machine scream remained.

"Hoo."

Color returned slowly, from the farthest edges inward. Vision secured.

Through the tail end of the storm outside the cockpit, the sun peeked out for a brief moment.

The ground meeting my nose was tilted at forty-five degrees.

It felt exactly like hurtling toward a colossal mountain.

I turned my head away — I refused to watch the place where I would die.

And then I saw them: a scattering of houses, a dozen or so, just beginning to light their lamps against the evening dark.

"Ha."

Right. First the throttle, now the nose won't answer either. Something else has broken — no need to think any further about that.

This is right. I'm an orphan, aren't I? Alone.

How many children would this worthless heap of junk turn into orphans the moment it slammed into the earth?

Isn't that exactly why they fed me this rank — to do my duty at times like this?

And.

Just in case. In the unlikeliest of cases.

"Houses in sight. Ejection not possible. Captain Lee Tae-oh, final transmission, out."

"At 11 p.m. tonight, a fighter jet of our military that departed Cheongju Air Base went down in nearby hills—"

"Black box analysis confirms the late Captain Lee Tae-oh abandoned ejection, avoided a residential area, and held the nose level until the very end—"

"The cause of the accident has been determined to be a lapse in aircraft maintenance—"

"For fulfilling every duty as a soldier and sacrificing himself for the safety of the people, the late Captain Lee Tae-oh is hereby granted posthumous promotion of one rank, and—"

And so my grave was laid ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the National Cemetery.

The grave of a friendless orphan with no family and no ties, visited by no one — except occasionally, when old classmates came by to leave flowers.

To be honest,

At the very end, I had hoped for a tiny miracle. The kind of miracle where someone with my face came looking for my grave. They did plaster my photograph and name across the entire country, after all.

Just once. Once would have been enough — to know who bore me. To see that face, just once.

I.

I did a good thing, right to the end.

I fulfilled my duty, right to the end.

I did everything I was supposed to do, didn't I?

······.

···.

Oh.

Son of a

bitch.

You! Bastard!!

"Did I ask for something hard?! I just wanted to see my own flesh and blood's face, once — is that so much to— ...huh?"

Wait. Why are words coming out?