Chapter 24
The Lobby of Lost Things
The California sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the Newgate estate's library, casting long, golden bars of light across tables littered with charcoal sketches, architectural blueprints, and half-empty mugs of lukewarm coffee.
It was late May 1977, and the air in the room hummed with a quiet, frantic energy.
Martha rubbed her tired eyes, staring at a storyboard frame that depicted a booby-trapped tunnel.
She had spent the last three hours trying to find a reference for the wall-carvings of a fictional 1930s Mesopotamian sect. "Ed, are you sure about these symbols? They look… almost like modern circuitry."
Edward, curled up in his custom-built chair, didn't look up immediately.
He was busy cross-referencing a thick, dusty history book with a schematic he had drawn on a scrap of graph paper.
He nudged his glasses up his nose, his expression one of intense, quiet concentration. He traced a finger over the symbols, his movements precise.
"Not circuitry," Edward murmured, his voice clearer than it had been months ago, though he still preferred the weight of his pencil to the weight of his words. "Flow control. The ancient builders didn't just decorate. They directed weight. If the stone shifts here, the mechanism releases the counterweight."
He looked at Martha and tilted his head, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. He mimed the movement of a sliding door with his hands—quick, sharp gestures that made it clear exactly how the temple's secret entrance worked. He wasn't just drawing a movie scene; he was building a physical environment.
"It's not just for the camera, Martha," he added, his voice soft but firm. "It's for the experience."
Artie, slumped in a beanbag chair nearby, let out a long, comedic groan as he stretched his back. "I'm an animator, Ed, not a structural engineer. My fingers are cramping from drawing these hieroglyphs. How are we supposed to make this look like a real temple on a UA budget?"
Edward hopped down from his chair, walking over to Artie's desk.
He placed a hand on the storyboard and pointed to the frame. "We don't need to fake it for the whole theater. We just need to build the entry."
He turned to the room, his eyes scanning the space as if he were already seeing past the walls of the library.
He walked to the center of the room and gestured to the open space, his hands carving out a shape in the air—a bridge, a series of pillars, a dark tunnel entrance.
"When people come to watch Jones," Edward said, his voice gaining that melodic, rhythmic quality that usually preceded his most dangerous ideas, "they should be entering the temple before they even buy their popcorn."
Artie blinked, sitting up straight. "A temple? In the lobby?"
Edward nodded, his face lighting up with a boyish, infectious excitement.
He began to pace, his feet bare against the polished wood. He didn't use big, corporate words like synergy or vertical integration.
He used his hands. He made a frame with his fingers, then pretended to hold a camera, clicking the air with his thumb.
"The adventure starts here," he said, gesturing to the lobby. "They see the bridge. They see the carvings. They want to touch it. They want to remember it."
He paused, then pulled a small, rugged-looking object from his pocket.
It was a prototype sketch of a camera, blocky and utilitarian, something that looked like it belonged on a field expedition in 1935.
He held it out to them.
"Disposable," Edward whispered, the drama of the word hanging in the air. "Cheap, sturdy, simple. They buy it at the door. They walk through the 'Temple Zone' in the lobby. They take pictures of themselves with the rope bridge. They take pictures of the statues."
Martha watched him, a strange feeling creeping into her chest. She had worked with brilliant men, but Edward was different. He didn't just want to tell a story; he wanted to curate the audience's life. "And then, Ed? They have to go home to develop them. That takes days."
Edward shook his head, his eyes widening. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him and began to sketch a small, high-speed automated unit—a "Newgate Field Research Station." He added a clock face, drawing the hands at a short interval.
"Two hours," Edward said. "By the time the movie ends, their photos are waiting. They don't just see the hero. They were the hero."
The room went silent.
Artie looked at the sketch, then at Edward, then back at the sketch. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. "You're talking about a mobile lab, Ed. A mini-factory in every cinema."
Edward shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He climbed back into his chair, picked up his charcoal, and returned to his storyboard. He had planted the seed.
He didn't need to explain the patent law or the licensing headaches—he knew Robert and Vane would handle that. He just needed his team to see the playground.
As they sat there, the weight of the "Verse" felt heavier than ever.
Edward's ledger—the one that contained the entire map, from the 1950s Croft files to the 2009 collapse—was sitting on the edge of the table, half-hidden beneath a stack of Anaconda posters.
Artie, feeling particularly bold, reached out to slide a reference book closer to him, his sleeve accidentally brushing against the edge of the black, leather-bound ledger.
In a movement that was almost too fast for his age, Edward's hand shot out, pinning the ledger to the table.
His eyes went sharp, the boyish warmth vanishing for a split second, replaced by a cold, protective instinct that silenced the room.
"Private," Edward said, his voice low, lacking its usual melodic cadence.
The silence that followed was thick, dramatic, and a little unnerving.
Martha stared at the boy, her breath catching.
For a moment, the five-year-old was gone, and standing there was the Architect—a strategist who was guarding a future that hadn't happened yet.
Edward realized the shift in the room immediately.
He softened his posture, dropping his hand from the ledger. He offered a small, shy, and deeply endearing smile—the kind that made everyone feel like they had just misread a shadow.
"Sorry," Edward said, his voice small again. "Those are... notes for the later movies. I don't want to spoil the surprise."
Martha exhaled, a nervous laugh escaping her. "Spoil the surprise? Ed, we're barely finished with the first one."
"That's the secret, Martha," Edward said, turning back to his sketch, his voice once again warm and rhythmic. "The surprise is never ending."
The atmosphere in the library shifted from the sharp tension of the ledger incident to a more grounded, bustling productivity.
Artie, ever the pragmatist, shook off the oddity of the moment with a forced cough and pushed his chair back. "Well, if we're building 'Field Research Stations,' I better start looking at the mechanics. If we can't fit the processor in a box the size of a popcorn machine, the theater owners are going to kick us out."
Edward nodded, already sketching the dimensions for a compact, modular kiosk. "It needs to look like a prop from the movie, Artie. Not like a machine. If they think it's part of the adventure, they'll want to stand in line."
Martha sat back, watching the two of them.
She was still thinking about the look in Edward's eyes when he'd guarded the book, but she pushed it into the back of her mind.
It was just an artist's quirk—that's what she told herself. "If we're going to do this, Ed, we need a partner. We aren't lens-makers. We aren't chemical engineers. We need someone who already owns the patents for instant, high-quality development."
Edward slid a piece of paper toward her. It had three names circled in bold: Polaroid, Kodak, Fuji.
"Polaroid is the best for the 'instant' thrill," Martha noted, tapping the list. "But Kodak is the giant. They're the ones who define the industry. If we go to Kodak, we're playing in their sandbox."
"Then we don't go to their sandbox," Edward said, his voice quiet but intense.
He stood up and walked to the wall where they kept a map of their nationwide distribution reach.
He placed a finger over the hubs where their Anaconda promotion was currently performing the best. "We show them that we have the high-traffic zones. We tell them, 'We bring the people, you bring the film.' We aren't asking them for a job. We're offering them a new way to sell their product."
The comedy of the situation wasn't lost on Artie. "We're five-year-olds—well, you are, and we're just your accomplices—trying to teach the biggest photography giants in the world how to run their business. Do you think they'll even take the call?"
Edward smirked, a glint of genuine, childhood mischief returning to his eyes. "They won't just take the call, Artie. They'll be fighting over the contract. Because I'm not just pitching a camera. I'm pitching a souvenir for an experience that doesn't exist anywhere else."
Over the next few weeks, the Newgate estate transformed into a makeshift patent-research office.
The library was buried under stacks of technical legal documents, patent filings, and engineering schematics that would have intimidated a graduate student.
Martha became the primary investigator, diving into the murky world of corporate law, while Artie spent his nights in the warehouse, trying to figure out how to automate a chemical developing tank into something that wouldn't spill acid on a child's shoes.
It was a grueling, thrilling process.
There were days of absolute hilarity, like when Artie accidentally created a "fume-test" that turned the warehouse a shade of neon yellow, forcing them all to evacuate the building in fits of hysterical coughing.
There were days of intense, quiet focus, where Edward would sit for hours, drawing not just the kiosks, but the entire floor plan of a "Newgate Zone."
He designed a rope bridge that used tension cables to simulate the "wobble" of a real jungle crossing.
He designed a "Temple Wall" that used hidden magnets to trigger a "click" sound when visitors pressed the right sequence of symbols.
He was creating a world that felt dangerous and grand, all within the constraints of a suburban theater lobby.
By mid-June, they had their target: Polaroid.
Martha had uncovered that the Polaroid engineers were obsessed with the "instant gratification" aspect of their technology, but they were struggling to bridge the gap between "home photography" and "public spectacle."
"This is our pitch," Edward said one evening. He had laid out the final design for the 'Newgate Field Station.'
It was a sleek, brass-and-wood console that looked like it had been lifted straight from the 1930s. "We don't ask for their money. We ask for their technology for our kiosks. We give them the audience, and we take a cut of the film sales at the theater."
Robert Newgate, who had been listening from the doorway, finally stepped into the room.
He had been quiet lately, letting Edward lead, but the sheer scale of this project had moved beyond a mere "kid's hobby."
"This is big, Ed," Robert said, his voice thick with a mixture of pride and cautious wonder. "You realize that if this works, we aren't just making movies. We're changing how people behave when they leave the house."
Edward looked at his grandfather, his expression calm. "That's the goal, Grandfather. Why should the movie end at the exit door? If the adventure keeps going in the lobby, the movie never really stops."
That night, after the work was done and the lights in the library were dimmed, Edward returned to his room.
He pulled the master ledger from its hiding place. He opened it to the page labeled 2009, the page that detailed the grand, subterranean battle in the Hollow Earth.
He looked at the small, intricate sketch of the three heroes—Lara, Sean, and Ben—standing together, and then looked at the camera he had designed today.
He knew it was the same camera model they would use to document the discovery. He wasn't just creating a temporary attraction; he was preparing the world for the reality of the future.
He didn't feel like a mastermind, and he didn't feel like a child. He felt like an Architect who had finally found the right materials to start building the foundation.
He heard a faint knock at the door. It was Martha. She looked tired, clutching a mug of tea. She didn't come in, just leaned against the frame. "We're doing something wild, aren't we, Ed?"
Edward looked up from his ledger and smiled, a genuine, warm, and simple expression. "We're building a map, Martha. A map for everyone to follow."
"Just make sure the map doesn't get us lost," she said with a soft laugh, turning to head back to her room.
Edward closed the ledger.
The silence of the house was comforting. He knew the map wouldn't get them lost; it was the only thing keeping the world from being lost in the first place.
He turned off his lamp, the last thing he saw before drifting off being the silhouette of the fedora he had drawn on the wall—the symbol of the man who would start it all.
The lobby was waiting.
The cameras were ready.
The first era of the Newgate empire was finally ready to be revealed.
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