You look over as he says he's proud of you, but by the time you choke out your thank you he's gone. Bruises cover his face and neck and he looks so tired even in death. You still say his name. It feels obligatory, even though you know. You knew as soon as the black tendrils crept through the room and the Illusive Man clenched his hand into a fist and your finger suddenly wasn't yours. It was firing. And even though Anderson was still standing then, it was for the same reason you were still standing.
There were no other options.
You pull your hand away from your side, glance down. It's warm. You can barely see your skin under the sticky blood coating it, which is strange because you don't feel anything but tired. Your face is numb. Your legs are numb. Your hand is warm.
Hackett radios in. Says there's something wrong. You try to make your way to the console to check, because you opened the arms it should be fine we should have won by now but you can't. You can't feel your limbs and they're shaking too much to support you, so you collapse.
You're finished. The fatigue creeps its way through your bones, whispering that you've already won. You've done enough. Anderson is proud of you. Garrus is proud of you. Wrex is proud of you.
A light flares. A platform detaches from the floor and lifts you to the ceiling.
It's not over yet. But it soon will be.