It began, like all of these disasters, with an idea. My brother thought of it, and I, naturally, followed him. It happened months ago, but is still so fresh in my mind. It was one of the few moments that our family was together for a weekend, and we were exhausted. My portly father suggested that we just relaxed, watched a film, and didn't rush out to do another activity. So we went into the lounge, and my brother and I sat down as Dad went to get a DVD. I turned on the TV in preparation for the film, and it was on the news. There was a feature about Cottonee in industry, and my brother and I watched as the Pokémon were dragged into a pen, sheared, and cast off, bare of any wool. Apparently after shearing 20% of Cottonee die of the cold, compared to a mere 3% previously. My brother looked at me. He is older than me, at the time he was sixteen while I a mere twelve. He had a lining of stuble around his thin face, and his brown eyes looked tired and haunted.

"Mike, look at those Cottonee. Look at the clothes we're wearing. Because of us, those creatures are dying in their thousands each year," he said, his voice full of life and energy. I realised that he was right. We were killing the Cottonee. It was because of our selfishness that they were being shaved, it was our fault that they were dying.

Like most movements, it began slowly and gently. We decided not to wear any cotton or woolen clothes, and encouraged our friends to do likewise. We even started our own group, the CRA, Cottonee Rights Activatists. There were never more than about twelve people in it at any time. Most people had a phase of sympathy for Cottonee, but soon returned to their comfortable lives, with their designer brands, for almost all clothes with a respectable label included at least some Cottonee wool. Only my brother and I remained.

We were tired, fed up of people, their selfishness, and the Cottonee that were dying every year because of them. So we took a step further. We jumped out of our little pond, into the great river. Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.

My brother was eighteen then, and had a car. We drove through the streets of Castelia City, in search of the address that had been given to us. We were in the suburbs, away from the bright lights and expensive appartments. The streets were dark, and empty, illuminated only by the headlight of my brother's car as we drove through. I was in the front with him, gazing at a road map.

"We should turn right at the next