flash fiction-Battlefield Poet "The Outpost"

Cooper and his convictions gain strength enough to fight a war, but all he really needs is for everything to just leave him alone with his own thoughts, that allows him to solve. He turns and is gentle with his nostalgic ideas of home as if an ancient traveler whose city has been sacked. New thoughts arrive in forms and beginnings, with feelings that looks like a gambler's lucky streak is about to end, but never does. Oh, if this rugged reality could only find its own way and let the free thoughts of the world be the angels that swoop--if someone only had thought of this before the war, this life would be easy.

He thinks of Suzi scanning intensely over the data sheets, her true intentions yet unknown, writing then rewriting newer and newer code, looking for that magic bullet algorithm. 
Cooper thinks of mentors from his school days, lecturing and bemusing, his eyes popping with curiosity, and yet those days hold no momentous occasion for him, except for one. One of those days seem now to hold the truth, the unceremonious instant he became a man of science in the true spirit of the genetic age. With a strong work ethic and a huge reading appetite it seems anything is possible, anything that can be thought of. It seems that it was no coincidence it was his teacher that drew the genetic world to its feet. Yes, he took endless notes from this funny little man, it seemed that he could be spoken to directly in his elegant mix of diligence and fame, and not feel the slightest downspesk or degradation of character by a man whose published papers had brought him fame.
And his looks were those that could attract many lovers. Not that he loved any of them. He was a solitary man. His important journey was between his ears, not his legs. His dalliances had been a constant source of gossip. Something he hated. He yearned for one unified theory. It seemed like a simple wish, yet so far impossible to attain. His preferences constantly betrayed him. He preferred large staid institutions to the wet and dirt of places like this outpost and all its bubble wrapped quirks. Cooper secretly learned robot computer language from this man. His social life was a constant digression. But as a scientist, he could have ended up working anywhere. Still young and maybe the last surviving genetic engineer of the golden age of genetics. An era of days gone by that quietly forgets. "Rosalind Franklin," he thought. "Another example of women getting screwed in the science world." And the church. "The church doesn't know anything about genetics," he would say. That thought always intrigued Cooper too. Theologists of The World checking the scientific soundness of research arguments. Write what you believe, not what you see, that's the new Watchword Healthcare Algorithm Consortium Knowledge (W.H.A.C.K.). To write with the diction of a noble poet, now that makes you an established investigator. 
Cooper arrived at the Outpost because he felt he could do his work here. He doesn't need the traffic or megalopolis congestion. Every code here stands on its own without the trappings of a big name university. "Shakespeare didn't need extravagant courtyards for his plays," Cooper thought. Yes, a scientific Shakespeare.