The Joker finally turned around to face him, stepping lightly backwards, his back slightly hunched. He beamed at him. "I like it just fine," he said, running a gloved hand through the greasy greenish strands. "I may not win any beauty contests, but at least I've got my dignity."
He walked through the door at the end of the hall, kicking it open with his heel and spinning around to face forward. "Welcome to my humble abode."
As they exited he hallway, they were left standing on a catwalk over the warehouse floor. It was grimy and lit solely by flourescent lights. Various piles of crates were stacked against the walls, and there were several thugs sitting on the catwalk by the entrance as watch. There didn't appear to be any other way in or out of the building. The whole place smelled of mildew and other things that grew in the damp.
The Joker traipsed down the metal stairs, his shoes clicking as he went. He cut around piles of crates until he reached a room all the way at the back. It had probably been the foreman's office in the old days of the factory. Now it was The Joker's makeshift workspace.
He had the thugs drag Remy in ahead of him, securing him to a chair in the middle of the room. Windows looked out onto the warehouse floor, though much of the view was obscured by boxes. Still, he had a clear view of the catwalk, and therefor anyone who entered the building.
The henchmen finished tying Remy to the chair, then left the room without a word, shutting the door behind.
The Joker removed his coat, whirling it around to rest on the back of a a chair of his own. There were no visible toture devices in the room--no cliched hospital tray of the tools of his trade. It was just him, the chairs, and Remy.
He sat down backwards, resting his chin on his hands on the back of the chair.
"So. You want to tell me why you volunteered for this gig?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "What, did everyone else feel like staying alive was more important than a half-hearted gesture to save friends and family?