It Takes Two to Tango.

 It was a game of cat and mouse being watched by millions of spectators around the world.

The prelude to the war that would dwarf all wars. They were planning on calling it 'The Final War'. An apt name given the stature of the two states.

America and Russia had never seen eye to eye. The two were akin to an inseparable pair of siblings, who as much as they would have loved to go their separate ways, knew, that one would miss the other if either were away.

America and Russia.

Nate was now a big wall-street honcho who ran millions of dollars every week for the tech wizards of Big Sam.

Dalia, a graceful ballerina from Moscow, Russia, who ran a dance studio in the heart of the city.

On the surface, worlds apart. But beneath the layers of this war, these two would play an important role in how the world would be shaped. The only real problem was, these two didn't know it yet. To them, each was a pawn part of a bigger game. But to us, the one's watching from the edge of our seats, this was nothing less than outright war, a war that would hold our breaths until the last moment. It would make for good watching, that was for sure. All Nate and Dalia had to do, was to play the game justly and fairly.

Dec 09, 2007, Cornell High, Virginia

There is Nate, sitting under the tree, with his cap on, to prevent the sun falling mercilessly upon his copy of Money Matters Most, that he is nurturing in his lap with splendid effort.

A pair of giggling girls walking towards the cafeteria making a wayward remark about the "nerdy geek" who also kinda looks cute.

Dalia certainly agrees.

"I'll be right with you," she says to her departing girlfriends, who have Cornell gossip to devour, in the posh school cafeteria.

"Is that going to help you get rich ?" she asks, as she approaches Nate from a distance.

He looks up and considers her carefully.

"No, but it'll help me make others rich. And that's one and the same thing. You help them, they help you. That's how it works."

"Is that so Nate Fryers ?" she asks with a smile.

"That is so. I intend to be an investment banker someday. Have my own office on Wall Street. That is the dream."

Dalia looks beautiful. He asks her to sit, to which she cedes.

"In Russia, we have a saying." she says in the manner of divulging a long-kept secret that is slowly about to be revealed, "The man who wants the most money is also the man who you should be most afraid of. Should I be afraid of you, Nate ?"

She tilts her head to the side and looks at him as if sizing him up. There is an odd boyish charm about him that can't help but draw others into his world.

A faint smile draws on his thin lips as he replies with a smirk.

"No, my dear. There is nothing to be afraid of. Not yet at least."

The relationship lasted a year. There were laughs, fights, and more importantly careful observations made along the way. It was an assignment unlike any either had undertaken. Neither adept at empathy or anything to do with the likes of forging bonds with people. They had been picked because of their flaws, not in spite of them.

America's poster boy Nate, recruited by the C.I.A. as part of a covert operations team, to track down and eliminate Russia's most coveted prize asset, Avdotia Sokolova. The Queen of the Night. Also known in the world inhabited by mortals, as Dalia Borysky.

And Dalia, who was so close to completing her mission. A trained assassin and one who'd been dispatched to the enemy's home all those years ago, with the sole purpose of killing as many as she could. They hadn't been able to figure out who she was. A dancer, and an elegant one at that, that is who she embodied so perfectly, and who she was known as to the rest of the world.

April 24, 2017 Langley, Virginia.

" Get Fryer on the phone, NOW. We have no time to waste, Rothchild. We take her out tonight. It's our only chance."

"Yes sir."

The line rang thrice before an impatient voice spoke on the other end.

"Yes ?"

"Fryer? It's me, Rob Rothchild."

"Yes, sir ?"

"Get yourself down for a briefing, pronto. Wall Street can wait. We do it, tonight. "

He hung up and reclined into his seat. After all these years of courting, this was it then, he thought. His first love. It didn't count for much. She was after all just an assignment.

He hadn't seen her in ten years.

Dalia. He smiled to himself.

She was good, was Dalia. The Soviet Secret Service had recruited her for a reason. A trained assassin. There were rumours that she was planning a big hit in the near future. Some said it was President Halson. And that was a terrifying thought. Halson was known for his aversion to security. He liked being the "people's man". Parading through crowds, shaking hands with the public, he seemed to think of it all as one big publicity stunt. Thought it endeared him to his supporters. But sentiment was not a commodity Nate liked to deal in. Not when it meant that the future of his country was hanging in the balance. He would have to make sure he got her tonight. There was no doubt in his mind, that if left unchecked, the future of the United States of America could look a whole lot bleaker than it already did right now. Russia would win the war. There would be no other choice but to lay down arms and bow. Bowing is not something that naturally comes to America. So, he thought, I must do what I must do.

He'd kept a file on Dalia ever since their high school days. They knew she was someone of importance. Someone the mob bosses in Russia often communicated with. But The Queen of the Night, THE Queen of the Night? Not a chance in seven heavens.

He knew her mother, Mrs. Borysky, who held Nate in high regard. Her father, a mechanic in downtown New York, was also a friendly man, although he had been known to have some kind of association with the terrorist cells of Albania. Nate had wiretapped the house when he'd visited them years ago. There was nothing that went on in the house that Nate wasn't privy to. Of course, he was long gone from their lives now.

The hit had been approved after she'd been caught after all these years, virtue of a hidden CCTV on Walson Street, where an American diplomat had been assassinated. She'd been seen leaving the crime scene, with a cap below a large grey hoodie. They had gotten their figurative "man."

"She's the one, Nate," said Tim Kolinsky, his superior, as they sat in the dusty offices of National Security and discussed the course of events to follow.

"She's the one" he'd whispered to himself quietly.

The gala tonight would be the perfect place. Yes, it would be a game of who-blinks-first. Cornell, every year, organized a re-union bash for its former students. Almost always the idea of an overly enthusiastic rich son-of-a-gun who didn't mind chipping in with truckloads of cash to help sponsor the party. It promised to be a big night.

He would don his regal Armani suit. A pair of the finest black leather on his feet from Harris, a royal black tie to go with his white shirt. And of course, the syringe in his pocket. Yes, that would complete his attire.

The Cornell Gala

Elvis Presley played on stage, a cheap impersonator belting out Jailhouse Rock, with a pair of surprisingly high-quality suede shoes to go along with the harsh pitch.

Nate had expected better, as he watched from a distance, nursing a drink of scotch in his hands.

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

A woman with her black hair down, wrapped elegantly in a black dress, with her black eyes staring into his, a smile on her face only too familiar.

"Nate"

"Dalia".

Her beauty left him speechless for a second. He didn't know if he should embrace or shake hands.

In courtesy of their phony love affair, he chose the former.

"It's so good to see you, Nate," she said wrapping her arms around him, the firmness of which took Nate aback.

"How's Wall Street ?" she inquired.

"Hey, I'm here aren't I? How good can it be ?"

Dalia laughed, her pretty laugh, that was one of her best features. For a moment, Nate felt lost in her presence. The briefest of contemplations of "what could have been". He smiled, but an inexplicable warmth coursed through him.

"Would you like a drink ?" she asked looking at him with her big wide eyes that held within them a cold ruthless killer. He had to shake himself to remind him of the fact. This woman in front of him was one of the most dangerous people currently in existence, and she had the power to alter history.

"Sure, why not. Barman, two more rounds please" he said pointing to his glass of Jack McDaniel's, at which the man behind the counter promptly dived into his shelves to procure the hallowed spirit.

"I'm not a fan of the strong stuff Nate. You more than anyone should know that"

"Tonight is different," he said turning towards her. "It's been ten years since we last saw each other Dalia. I..."

She looked at him inquiringly, her eyes twinkling from afar, but she made sure he saw into them deeper, as she leaned in close.

"Yes ?"

Nate looked at her and ran his hands on her dress.

"It's just good to see you, Dalia."

Elvis exited the stage to get some fluids into his parched vocal areas. Michael stepped on in his absence.

"Billie Jean is not my lover..."

Dalia needed no second invitation. She stepped onto the dance floor in her high heels and that dazzling smile and broke into a sizzling groove.

"Come on Nate Fryer, afraid of a little bit of movement ?"

Nate walked over, looking her dead in the eye. He took off his coat and threw it into the crowd. The Harris shoes made for excellent dancing apparel. He slid across the floor in a moonwalk almost as smooth as Michael, although some people were not too pleased with his impersonation.

"How could you ?"

"BOO."

"Oh come on, give the guy a break. He's got more in the locker. Look."

A split followed. Nate was a trained ballet dancer too, a fact not known by many. He trained on the weekends, at the Bleu Centre of Performing Arts, right in the middle of the city. Which not coincidentally, was located next to Dalia's Dance Studio.

"Impressive, Fryer," said Dalia who walked up to him once Nate was upright again, and kissed him deeply on the lips. Nate stood still, unable to cope with the unexpectedness of the tender warmth he felt run with lightning pace through him. She had purple lipstick on. She was exotic in every manner of the word.

"Wow," said Nate once she detached herself from him.

"Yeah, wow's right Nate. I couldn't help but notice your hands got a little frisky there too. What is it, Nate? Is it my dress? Do you think it goes well on me?"

"I think it was meant for you, Dalia. I'm afraid you're going to have to give me your number. So that I can send you the laundry bill for ruining my perfectly clean set of lips"

She groaned.

"Really Fryer?"

"Yeah, yeah. Real cheesy, I know. Come on, Dalia. I've missed you."

She stepped back, examining him closely.

"Have you Nate? Have you really ?"

She tilted her head and waited for his response.

Nate's throat felt dry. He asked the barman for a glass of water.

"Look, let bygones be bygones. I want to get to know you once more, Dalia. Start over. Seeing you here tonight, it brought back so many memories. I think I've been thinking a lot about you Dalia Borysky. "

"You think you've been thinking, or you have ?"

"I have."

She stood up from her chair, stumbling in the process, as Nate rushed to pick her up.

"Whoa, you okay there? Looks like you've had one too many."

"I'm fine. It's just my feet. Dancing kills you off one bone at a time, at least that's what Master Rateau used to tell us back in Moscow."

"Are you sure ?"

"I'm sure," she said straightening herself. "Look, Nate..."

She stumbled again, as this time Nate let her fall. She knocked over a chair or two in the process, bumping her head against the bar counter as she fell.

"Oh no," said Nate bending over to offer her a hand, "It doesn't look like you're fine, Dalia. Maybe it's not the drinks. Maybe it's this chemistry between us"

She struggled to stand up as she mouthed incoherently, "What do you mean ?"

Nate produced the syringe from the seams of his pant and displayed it with a sense of distantness.

"Morphine and a few drops of liquid Nightshade. A deadly combination if you ask me. You can vouch for that, can't you ?"

Her face was facing the floor, as she moaned and withered in anguish.

Nate reached for his glass of water but found it empty. He looked around fervently for another one.

Dalia now looked up and regarded Nate with a look of fondness, but hidden beneath the layer was an unmistakable facet of contempt.

"This is a game two play, my love. Sit down. The struggle will only exacerbate the pain"

"What are you talking ab -"

Nate's hand reached for his throat, as he felt a burning sensation in his mouth, that slowly made his way down to his heart. His breathing quickened and then stopped. And then quickened again. Before finally reaching a precarious state. He gasped for air, taking his place down next to Dalia.

The two lay side by side, dying, as his hand grazed hers for the briefest of moments.

"Never kiss a woman with purple lips," she said into Nate's ears. "Purple is the colour of doom."

It had been the neurotoxicity of the deadly kiss. Clearly designed especially for him.

Nate looked at her, his final few moments in front of his eyes.

"I think we were destined to meet here and then depart together, Dalia. This is who we are."

Dalia closed her eyes and responded faintly, "Who are we, Nate ?"

"I don't know. But death, it is much better than I expected."

He closed his eyes and lay in the arms of the woman he had killed successfully, the woman returning the favour by entwining her fingers around his, making sure the two exited the game as equal winners.