//------------------------------//
// Door Walker, Chapters 1-2 
// Story: Spoiled Fruit 
// by RazgrizS57 
//------------------------------//

You are cursed. Every door you open is a literal portal, one that will take you anywhere in the world. One moment you could be running through a hospital in Baltimare and you open the door to the restroom, and the very next you find yourself entering an apartment overlooking the Manehattan skyline. As such, you’re never in one place for long. You are always moving, always pushing through your weary life for a little bit of food and rest; whatever it takes to survive, to persevere, even if it means running away from the aspects of life meant to slow you down. The last thing you want to do is trap yourself someplace where every door remains shut. Then you’d fall under a new curse, one you’re not sure you can survive.





The door opens just a crack, allowing a thin sliver of light to leak out and brighten the room in front of you. It’s dark here, but the ambience paints everything a pale shade of gray, letting you see enough. The first thing you note is a nearby sofa, its back to you, and a couple of framed pictures hanging on the far wall. You see the vague images of a stallion, a mare, and a chipper little colt across them. Their glass reflects the light you’re bleeding, and after looking a little harder at them, you catch the reflections themselves. There appears to be an open entryway to your left.

You nudge open the door a little further and poke your head into the room, looking for signs of the homeowners. Fortunately, they aren’t here, or at least in this room. Then you notice a strong, buttery scent. You step a hoof out onto the carpeted floor and stretch your nose out a little more—you can’t help but point it up and inhale deeply—and looking towards that open entryway you see the carpet give way to tile. Likely the kitchen. A brighter light floods out of it, spilling color into the living room. You open the door a little further and squeeze yourself out into the home.

You twist the handle so the door shuts noiselessly behind you. You briefly consider the room you just walked out of must be a closet, but the thought passes and another, more pressing one realizes itself. You now hear a gentle song coming from the kitchen. This was the last thing you needed. The ghost of the song you last heard must’ve still been buzzing in your ears and you didn’t even notice this new one. Stupid hotel lobby and its obnoxious jazz music. You should escape now before you’re spotted, but the prospect of a hot meal is too much for the burning space in your stomach. You decide the food will be worth it, and you stalk around the sofa and look for an opportunity.

You slowly peer around the side and through the entryway, and your heart does a twirl before spiraling into the pit of your stomach. You see the mare from the pictures standing in front of a countertop. She swishes her tail to the rhythm of her humming, a butter knife grasped firmly between her teeth. She doesn’t notice you because she’s too busy doing something. You need to back away but the emptiness in your chest only grows with the thought. Hunger is in your eyes and you know it. You feel it. This is it. No backing down this time, you’re going to see this through. You’re going to take what you can, and a second later you realize that that’s apparently a sandwich. She finishes putting it together and puts it inside a little plastic baggie, then brings over a bright red apple, a granola bar, and a couple other things you were too slow to catch eye of. She drops it all into a container just out of view.

That doesn’t look like breakfast food. It must be a lunch. A cold lunch. But it’s too early, so a lunch for her husband, perhaps? Your stomach growls and you immediately hide. Fortunately the mare’s humming is too loud for her to hear you. You swear at yourself under your breath. But now you have options. Should you swipe the lunch or the breakfast? The breakfast is simply too tempting, but you don’t even know what it is right now, and sticking around for too long threatens you being caught. Besides, it’s already morning. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the house wakes, if it hasn’t already. You can already surmise the husband will need to leave for work soon. You catch the base of the staircase out of the corner of your eye and grimace.

The lunch it is, then. It should be easier to get away with as well, but you haven’t had a hot meal in over a week. Oh well. There’ll be another time. Swiping the lunch will be quicker and hopefully easier. Now you just need to wait for the mare to walk away and you’ll have your chance.

Unfortunately, she isn’t. She’s still working at that counter. You could always disregard this fact and take a chance, maybe splay your wings to intimidate her, to help try and scare her away. But she’d be scared anyways by seeing a stranger in her home. Besides, you’re already a thief. You don’t want to hurt anypony anymore than you need to. Past run-ins have shown how unpredictable ponies are when they feel threatened. No, you decide against revealing yourself, even if you’re more than capable of overpowering a single mare. You don’t intend to stick around, anyways.

Something rings. A bell. A timer. The mare turns her head off to the side and walks towards it. Now’s your chance. You need to be quick, and yet quiet. You take off from behind the sofa in a gentle run, and the carpet softens your steps. But once you get to the tile, she’ll know you’re there. There’ll be no silence in the kitchen. Get in, and get out.

You break through the entryway and run across the room. Your wings expand in preparation for the jump back, and for a moment you wonder if you should have used them to carry you instead. It’d definitely make things quieter, but it’d probably make little difference. It’s too late, anyways. You make it to the counter and open your mouth to grab the presumptuous paper bag, but you stutter.

There’s no paper bag here. Just a closed, little white lunchbox with a picture of a happy sun on it and a tiny red handle. This isn’t for the husband. You can’t take this. You shouldn’t. You can’t.

Damn it. It’s too late to change your mind and your stomach echoes the thought. You grab the lunchbox, twist around, and bolt back out the way you came. You hear a noise in your wake. Was it the mare? Did she scream? You don’t want to know. You’re already feeling terrible. You take the corner into the living room sharply and leap off the back of the sofa—which tips from your weight—and then you throw yourself at that closet door. A second later you manage to throw it open and a foul odor assaults you. No matter. You don’t care. You can’t stay in that house. You run into the cramped little room you’re given and slam the door shut behind you.

You immediately note the door is made from a heavy plastic, as are all the walls. You twist uncomfortably in the small space, your wings awkwardly trying to reposition themselves at your sides. There’s a seat here, curiously enough, but before you even consider sitting a foul odor overwhelms your senses, so much so that the blaring din of construction work in the background fails to register inside your head.

You’re too busy trying to think to notice the door opening. The light of dawn nearly blinds you, but a thick shadow quickly does away with that. Your bleary eyes quickly adjust and after blinking a couple times, you’re aware of the confused stallion standing in front of you. He’s grossly rotund and wearing a bright-yellow vest and matching hardhat. There’s a bit of stubble on his chin. You don’t know why you noticed that, but it beats looking him in the eyes.

Your breath catches but for which reason you don’t know. You don’t care to know. You just want to get out of this place. You reach over and tear the door from the stallion’s grip and slam it shut. Immediately afterwards you push back out with all your might and just about collapse out onto a hard floor. The lunchbox you stole bounces and clangs across the ground before resting a few feet away. You cough for some fresh air and scramble to your hooves, sweeping the lunchbox up beneath a wing as you run forward, even though you don’t know where you are.

You nearly run into somepony and stumble to a halt. You regain your breath some more and find the wherewithal to not hunch over and collapse again. It hasn’t even been a day since your last theft, but the adrenaline drains your lungs and takes over your legs every time. Your forehead feels clammy. Your unruly mane rests over your eyes. You should cut it at some point. You move it out of your way and glance up.

Bland advertizing takes up the entire wall in front of you. Ponies are milling about in every direction and none of them seem perturbed by your sudden and rash arrival. A lot of them are carrying shopping bags. A few more glances tells you you’re in a shopping mall, likely in some big city. You turn back around and see a cheap plastic toilet staring back at you from a tiny, dark blue room.

You quickly run up and close the door. A little red plaque that reads “Management” is nailed on it. For some reason you find this amusing, but you shove the thought away and take off into the mall. It isn’t long before you find a bench outside some department store, and before you even think about it you’re already sitting there. You lower your head so as to not draw attention to yourself and pull the lunchbox out from beneath your wing. The metal is cold in your hooves and a chill permeates inside you. It’s as if the lunchbox itself is trying to steal your warmth like you undoubtedly stole from that family, and it forces a sigh out of you.

Why’d that mare have to make the kid’s lunch first? Why couldn’t you have walked into that hotel room a minute later? Maybe then she’d have made her husband’s lunch first. Heck, you don’t even know if the husband lived there. You don’t know anything about that house, that family. Maybe the mother was single. Maybe she’s poor and that colt just won’t have lunch today. You just robbed a little kid of his food. How will they sleep at night? How will you?

Blessed Celestia, just stop it already. Stop it. This is what happens when you think; your emotions get the better of you and you rapt yourself with guilt. There’s no point in it. It’s not like you had much of a choice. This is your life. You walk into strange places to scrounge up what necessities you can before moving on to the next. It’s not your fault your curse makes you live like this, unable to stay in one place, unable to settle. You don’t want to find yourself somewhere you don’t want to leave, because you’ll never be able to. You’d have to be in that room forever. You’d be trapped. That frightens you. You’re just doing what it takes to survive and keep yourself sane. If you told that mare, she’d probably understand.

Though she’d likely scream at you before you could get a word in. How in the world would you even explain yourself? Anypony would think you’re crazy. Maybe you are. But don’t think about that. Just eat your breakfast and move on like you always do.

You undo the little latch and remember this is a cold lunch. You find this oddly fitting.

You’d have much prefered a hot meal instead.





The pouch of bits feels heavy in your hooves. Twenty whole bits. It’s been awhile since you’ve had so much money. Usually panhandling isn’t so lucrative. It’s not like you were playing an instrument or putting on a performance. You were just trying to get some rest on a bench inside this small train station for the past however many hours. Maybe you’ll buy a bushel of apples or a nice warm meal. It’d be a nice change of pace from all the recent thieving you told yourself you weren’t going to think about. That relies on finding a place to eat, however.

You look up from your spot on the ground. You’ve been sitting at the base of a magazine kiosk for the last half hour. But you won’t buy anything here. You may want to, but you won’t. Those bits are precious and you need to be careful with how you spend them. You look at the trashcan a few meters away and frown at how nopony has dropped one in there yet. But free magazines can wait. Your stomach’s starting to get the better of you and you decide it’s time to go eat before all the caterers begin serving evening meals. Dinner is typically more expensive. You slip the pouch of bits back into your saddlebag and stand. Ponies flow around you like water, and you sink into the crowd and wander the station, looking for what it has to offer.

However, after several minutes walking around, it’s starting to become apparent just how small this train station is. There are very few vendors here, and none of them sell food outside of tiny bags of nuts and crackers. You aren’t a picky eater, but none of that would be filling. You need a meal. Maybe if you stepped outside you could find a diner or something. You just need to wait for somepony else to open a door and you’ll be able to walk through it without the influence of your curse. Funny how that works.

It’s already been ten years, and you still don’t fully understand your curse. If you open a door, you can wind up anywhere in the world. However, if a door is already opened—or someone else opens a door for you—you can pass right through to the other side just like a normal pony. Although, you’ve found there are some limitations to your curse. Revolving doors work just fine for you, as do sliding doors. Stall doors are another. It still embarrasses you to think about how many times it took before that finally stuck with you. You think it has to do with the open spaces. Oddly, doors with windows in them still follow the curse, even ones that are entirely glass. It’s confusing to think about how that works. You don’t think about it. All you know is that if a door completely fills its frame and is hinged, the curse applies, or at least as far as you’ve seen. But you like that rule. It keeps things simple and easy to remember. No need to complicate things.

You walk towards the exit and some gracious mare is there holding the door open. She smiles at you as you pass, looking like that’s all she knows how to do and wants nothing more than to see you smile too. Of course you give her one, if not nearly as charismatic. But she doesn’t mind. Two steps later, you’re out on the street and you’re probably never going to see that mare again. Your smile fades and you look around.

Overcast skies block out the sun. You think this is Hoofshear. You’ve been there a couple of times before, as a matter of fact, although this would be your first time seeing the train station. A shadow steals your attention and you look up and confirm this is the same town, evident by the unforgettable clock tower looming over your head. You saw that from the mayor’s office the second time you were here. Three years ago, you think it was. It’s without a doubt the tallest building in town. You never got the proper chance to explore Hoofshear before, so you might as well take the chance you’re given. You do need to find someplace to eat, after all.

It’s best that you go to the first place you find. Not that you’re starving at the moment, but you find the outside world to be the most unsettling place you can be. Ironic, considering one of your biggest fears is being trapped inside a room with no way out. Although, it certainly isn’t the claustrophobia that worries you. No, this fear is completely different, but fundamentally the same. You’re afraid of being unable to escape.

Sometimes you ask yourself why you’d be worried of not being able to run away when you have the open world beneath your hooves, boundless, without walls to barricade you or doors to throw you off your course. But then you remember, you don’t have a set course. You have no goal, other than to keep moving. You like your doors, because you’re assured you’ll always have a way to leave, a direction to move. You can always find an empty bed to sleep in, a shower to use, some food to eat. You aren’t guaranteed that outdoors.

Another thing is that more often than not, buildings have their doors locked, especially at night. If there’s anything you fear the most, it’s a locked door. When you enter a new room, the door you used can always be reopened. If that ever turned out not to be the case... well, you’ll cross that bridge if you get to it. Hopefully that won’t ever happen. That’s why you like to stay inside. You like being able to run away. You like your doors. You like your curse.

Wait, no you don’t. You’re just pathetic, aren’t you?

No you’re not. Stop thinking like that. Nobody in their right mind would want to live like this, but you have no choice. So stop thinking so low of yourself. Stop it. Stop thinking. Stop.

You’re walking down the street when a door opens with a little ring beside you. The smell of cocoa wafts up to you and then you’re running. You’re able to stick your leg in the front door before it closes and you push yourself inside. The warm, earthen colors of the café presents itself to you, and you catch the sweet smile of the unicorn behind the counter luring you further in. She’s wearing a yellow apron and has her mane down. You give her a smile back and then glance at all the tables scattered around the room. There’s a few other ponies here, reading papers or idly chatting with their friends. You wonder if this place sells more than drinks.

You walk up to the counter and the barista chirps in a bubbly tone, “Welcome to the Sunflower Shack! Can I get you anything?”

You don’t give her an answer at first. Your eyes drift towards the drink menu over her head, but then they jump to the glass display inside the counter, which shows off an assortment of pastries and rolls. There’s even some salads for sale. Your stomach begins to burn. You point a hoof into the display and go to speak, but your hungry tongue gets in the way of your words.

The barista grins at you and you stop trying to talk. She looks down at where you’re pointing and says, “A Meadowsaic salad? That’s a house speciality, you know. We make ‘em fresh!”

That wasn’t what you were pointing at, but you nod anyways and watch her take out a plastic bowl. She steps over to a set of bins you didn’t notice, embedded in the countertop behind a short glass screen. She catches your eye and her smile edges to one side.

“How’s your day going?” she asks you. She’s busy sifting through the bins with her magic and pulling out a variety of flowers and grasses, and yet she spares you most of her attention. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Are you from out of town?”

You nod again and this time you’re able to speak. “I’m just passing through,” you say. Which is true. Another thing you don’t like is lying. You’re a mess. No you’re not.

“Traveling?” she asks. She motions with her nose towards your saddlebag, but her eyes twitch upwards towards your mane. Great, you may not be a mess, but you’ve got to look like one. You probably have a bedhead from when you were resting at the train station. You knew you should’ve cut your mane by now. No stallion’s got hair this long.

“Drifter,” is the first thing you can think of. “Always on the move, you know?” is the next. “Always seeing new places. I guess you could say I like adventure.”

“A real Daring Do, then?” she says with a smile, chuckling at her own joke, then she starts assembling your salad. “Going wherever the wind takes you, huh? That definitely sounds like fun. Traveling across Equestria, living under the stars...” She pauses. “Well, that’s my fantasy, anyways. But I’ve got two beautiful foals and the stallion of my dreams waiting for me at home. Some dreams can only stay dreams, I guess.”

You don’t say anything to that. Partly because you don’t know what to say. Small talk was never your best skill. So you find a bit of solace in not having to speak. At least until the silence gets awkward. Now your legs are uncomfortable.

The barista has her eyes transfixed on your salad she’s assembling. She starts to put some yellow flowers on it when she flips back her mane and asks, “You got any family?”

A small lump holds your breath back for an instant. “Yeah,” you say, but your voice comes out more strained than you wished. This is why you don’t like lying. You’re bad at it. You hastily add, “Canterlot.”

The barista turns her gaze back to the salad and her smile wavers a little. She probably caught your lie. But after a pause, it sounds to you like she didn't, because she seems to have accepted them. “Beautiful city. I have a cousin who runs a thrift store there. You ever been to Knick’s Knacks?”

You take a breath and shake your head. “Haven’t heard of it.”

She hums. “You should go there next time you’re in town. Tell Knicky that his cousin Lily sent you and I’m sure he’ll get you a nice discount.”

“Thanks,” you say. Fortunately, the conversation ends then when she slaps a black lid on top of the salad. You didn’t even notice she finished it. It’s already on the countertop in front you.

“Anything else I can get you?” she asks.

Yes. No. You feel a little guilty for lying and don’t want to stick around for anymore questions. You can get some more food elsewhere. You shake your head and say, “No, that’ll be it.”

“For here or to go?”

“To go,” you say. Strangely, she seems a little saddened by this. Maybe you just voiced your words wrong again. 

She places the salad inside a little paper bag for you and smiles. “Have a good day!”

You go to grab the bag but hesitate. You blink and look back at her. “Don’t I have to pay for this?”

Her smile softens. “No, I think this one will be on the house,” she says and winks. “Name’s Lily, by the way. Come back some time, okay? I love meeting new faces.”

You stare at her. You realize you’re staring at her. You lower your head, take the bag between your teeth, mutter a “thank you”, and retreat towards the front door. 

The bag feels heavier than you thought it would. You should’ve paid for it. Why’d she give it to you for free? Maybe she thought you were homeless? Do you look homeless? You don’t know. You need to wash up regardless. It certainly wouldn't hurt to look more presentable. You’re at least thankful for having plenty of bits still. That means you can buy more things. But first you need to leave this shop. You haven’t yet. You find yourself standing in front of the door. Right, you need somepony to enter first, to open the door for you. That way you don’t freak anypony out, especially that nice mare. You remember her name is Lily.

But as the seconds tick by, nopony has come in yet. Ponies must think you’re weird, just standing here. You glance over your shoulder and catch the edge of Lily’s eye as she turns away from you. Some other pony is staring at you skeptically from their table. Quit standing here.

You walk back towards the counter and when Lily turns around, she looks pleasantly surprised. You quickly ask her, “Where’s the restroom?”

She points across the room and happily tells you, “Down that hall towards the left.”

You mumble another “thank you” and take off across the room. Your head is the last thing to turn the corner, just so you can make sure nopony will see you. Confident they won’t, you walk up towards the stallion’s room and push the door in.

You quickly walk through and shut the door behind. You see the image of a burning candle looking back at you, painted on the surface of a wooden door. Stuffy air fills your lungs. You turn around, your hooves creating a dull echo on the place’s hardwood floor, and you’re greeted with the wooden bust of somepony long dead.

Wood. There’s lots of wood here. Floor, ceiling, walls. It takes you a second to see all the bookshelves beyond the table holding the bust, and it finally dawns on you that you must be in a library. It’s small, too. It’s been awhile since you’ve stepped hoof inside such a place. Or at least it feels like a while. You’ve always been fond of libraries. They’re real quiet, and you can typically walk away with a few books to occupy yourself with for a little while.

You hope they’ll let you eat your salad here. You decide to take a look around, absently walking towards that center table holding the bust when a bit of movement to the right catches your eye.

You see a tower of books on two short, stout purple legs wander towards you before dropping to the ground with a slam. The one who’d been carrying it steps out from behind and wipes an arm across his brow, and your eyes widen at seeing it’s a dragon. A child, given you’re taller than it is. Normally, they’re rather seclusive, but your surroundings suggest otherwise. You rack the back of your mind, trying to recall anywhere in the world you could’ve wound up that has dragon societies.

The dragon takes a few books off the top of the stack before finally realizing you’re there. “Oh, hey there!” he says, setting the books down in a separate pile. “Sorry, but we’re not exactly open at the moment. Twilight must’ve forgot to lock the door on her way out.”

“Oh,” you say. Way to be tactful. A second passes before you think of something else. “Sorry, I thought you were. I just haven't been in a library in a while.”

“Yeah, we only moved in here a few days ago,” he says, reaching up for another book. “I heard the library was only open in the evenings before. That true?”

He seems comfortable around you, at least. Now, keep the conversation going; you don’t want to be kicked out so soon. You set your paper bag on the ground and say, “Yeah. I don’t know why the previous librarian thought that was a good idea.”

“She didn’t do too good of a job managing the place, either,” he says, and then frowns at one of the books he’s holding. “Books in the wrong shelves, covered in dust, some missing their sleeves, others falling apart entirely... “ He flips through the pages. “Sheesh, you’d think the pony who’s supposed to be looking after these things would actually, y’know, look after them.”

Ponies? Okay, so you’re still in Equestria. Somewhere. Keep talking. “Somepony should’ve done something sooner.”

“You’re telling me,” he says flatly, pulling down more books. “Twilight just about pulled her mane out when she realized the state everything was in. She’s been itching to get this mess cleaned up, and today’s the first real chance we’ve had since we got here.”

You look around at all the bookshelves, and there’s undoubtedly more than you can see from here. It must be a lot of work for two... dragons? No, he said Twilight had a mane. She’s definitely a pony. Maybe they can use your help and you can get a few extra bits out of it. 

“Do you need any help?” you ask.

He smiles at you but shakes his head. “I think we got it. Twilight’s very... particular about her books. Got her own system and everything. It’s best we handle things ourselves, in all honesty, if not for her well being than your own.” He sets down the books he’s holding and chuckles, then offers you one of his claws. “Name’s Spike, by the way.”

“Daybreak,” you respond, and you two shake. “So the library’s closed then, Spike?”

“Technically,” he says, scratching his chin. “Might be another day or two before we can formally open, but I’d hate to turn away somepony, considering how the last librarian was and all.” He shrugs. “You’d be better off talking to Twilight. I’m really just the assistant. I guess you can wait around if you want until she gets back.”

It’s not exactly what you wanted, but you might get something out of this, after all. “Thank you,” you say, and then you point to the bag on the ground. “You wouldn’t mind if I eat my lunch here, do you?”

“Well, not here,” Spike says, motioning at all the books. But then he points to an open entryway on the other side of the room. “Through there’s the kitchen, though. Feel free to eat at the table.”

“Thanks,” you say again, and you pick up your lunch.

“Yell if you need anything,” he says, slowly turning around and walking away with a book under his arm. “I’ll be upstairs bringing down more books. Twilight should be back soon enough.”


“Okay,” you say as Spike disappears around a corner. After gathering yourself, you turn towards the kitchen. But a faded green book out of the corner of your eye quickly distracts you. The title’s indecipherable from here, but the cover seems familiar and grabs you nonetheless. Spike’s footfalls fade away, and you take a closer look at the book.

“Daring Do and the Equestrian Star,” you read to yourself. You don’t think you’ve seen this one before. A quick glance at the spine tells you this is the twelfth in the series, and now that it’s in your hooves, you realize just how crisp it is. This must be the next installment. You wonder when it was released. You only vaguely remember hearing about it, and suddenly you can’t wait to discover more. 

You take a glance towards the stairs and don’t hear anything. Surely they won’t miss one; there are plenty of copies here, anyways. Besides, you were going to take it anyhow when it came to checking out. You slip the book under your wing and move into the kitchen.

The kitchen looks more befitting a home then the faculty break room you were expecting. The cabinets are packed with dishes, the drawers full of utensils, and there’s even a full-sized pantry. There’s almost nothing in it, though. You poke your head in the refrigerator and see it’s just as empty, exempting a small bucket of various gemstones. You swipe a few off the top and drop them in your saddlebag, then take a seat at the table.

You drop your paper bag on top and after taking a quick glance over your shoulder, pull out the Daring Do book.