The light breeze sends small shocks down his entire body; they're his first clue. Someone stole his blanket again. His ears start picking up the loud engines of garbage collectors making the rounds and the large delivery trucks that supply the nearby stores. He rubs the crust formed around his eyes and struggles to sit up. Lifting up his eyelids becomes harder with each passing day; the burning sensation is becoming more intense. He expects he will lose his sight any day now.
He looks around. Shapes are just as blurry as yesterday. He looks up and squints; he can make the color of the sky. It's lightening up, from the starry blackness to a deep shape of blue. He starts rubbing his naked arms and torso, to warm up just a little bit, then takes a few moments to collect his thoughts, to properly allow his brain to wake up. He looks up again; the dark shade of blue has lightened up. He can't stall anymore, he has to move.
He supports himself on the nearby trashcan he and some friends had used to warm themselves the night before. As soon as his weight drops on his legs, he feels his knees crackle. His steps are heavier than yesterday; the cold doesn't help, but it's better than spending all day and night in the dampness of the sewers below. He walks slowly; his eyes aren't enough to guide him. He has walked the same path many times, he could reach the manhole with his eyes closed. He wagers he'll need to do as much soon. Even so, he still uses his hands to feel around the place and his boots to slightly kick forward, to ensure he doesn't stumble on anything or anyone new in the way.
He struggles with the cover of the manhole. He slowly drags it open, just enough for him to slip through; he's a big guy and despite the continuous deterioration of his body, his mass hasn't dropped one bit. He slowly climbs down the ladder to the sewers. He measures his steps, grabbing on to each railing as tightly as he can; he learned that lesson a week ago, when he ended up head first on the murky pool below. He still recalls the splitting headache he had for the rest of that day, though at least his head didn't actually split open. He isn't sure his skull will hold whole if he falls this time.
His smell is the only sense that has actually improved over time. As soon he steps off the rusty ladder, he picks up the musk on the walls around him and the stink of the water puddles below his boots.. The darkness surrounding him isn't easy on his already failing eyesight. What was blurry on the surface only resembles a never-ending fog in the depths of the city. He knows where he's going, though. He feels the walls with his hands and walks, slowly, his feet firmly on the ground.
It wasn't always like this. When he first reached Metropolis, he was strong; stronger than most. His skin was completely impenetrable. He could focus his eyes to see through everything and his ears, now filled with blood, could hear the buzz of a fly from three squares away. He used to spend his whole day just focusing on the things people said; ordinary people, going about their lives. Things he had never heard before. He would sit under the sun, drink in its warmth and find out the troubles and joys of regular people, their struggles at work and the peace of family and home.
The Sun… that perfect white star burning with yellow fire in the sky, emitting a light that's life-giving to most Kryptonians. He hasn't felt it against his skin in a very long time. His body can't take it anymore. It burns.
It's those memories, he thinks, that have kept his mind still clear and sharp; or as clear and sharp as living with stabbing pains all over his body will allow. He takes the same route every day: walk slowly twenty paces to the left of the ladder, then turn left. Fifteen more paces and then right. Walk straight until the puddles of dirty water under his feet turn to small pools at the height of his knees. Feel the wall until he finds a carving of three lines surrounding an oval rock. The rock is supposed to be bright green when viewed from a certain angle and its light is supposed to lead to the entrance to his shelter.
He can barely see the rock now that his eyesight is almost gone and the darkness doesn't help. He still remembers where the light-beam is supposed to point, but he always ends up backtracking at least a few times until he gets it right. When he does, he turns a lever. His hosts had told him the lever was installed when the sewer system was first established over a century ago. Its base is rusted and stuck and the lever is too small for anyone to open; anyone without super-strength, that is.
For the last year, he has been spending his days with the Underworlders. He had met them before, when he was still strong, but it was once his body started breaking down that they opened their house to him and they all hung out. They probably felt kinship, just like he did. The Underworlders were failed experiments that had been thrown out of Cadmus Project, the largest black research center in Metropolis before it shut down; not unlike him. They had a few run-ins with Superman, but their once thriving war tribe fell in shambles once their leader, Clawster, was killed by the Science Police. They talk about him often; he's a hero among them, but not one they miss. Clawster's dealings with the alien Mongul and his Warworld motivated him to rally the Underworld society and wage war against the surface world.
The Underworlders underneath Metropolis are now just a handful and none of them wish to see war. They've come to terms with their fate; a life away from prying eyes, which at the first sight of their deformed bodies and faces, would glare, disapprove and signal fearful hands to pick up and throw stones. Now, they spend their nights scouring the city for salvage, which they put to use in the day, crafting furniture and pots and mechanical devices. Not many merchants will do business with them and those that do keep their association off the books, a secret, but the monsters' works are some of the best in the market. At least, so they claim.
He never had any reason to doubt anything they've told him. There is something humbling about creatures as tall as short buildings and hands as big as a small cars laying down arms and devoting their lives to the most humble of human work. He was afraid; not of them, but of connections with others. He wouldn't admit it, but at the back of his mind, they are his friends.
He finally finds the lever. He runs his fingers across it to confirm and then wraps them around the metallic base. He pushes with whatever strength his body can still muster up. The lever turns easily. Too easily. Something's wrong.