I suppose you could say that it began when my father killed my twin brother.
His name was Charmont. He was arrogant, scrappy-everything that a saiyan was supposed to be. There was only one thing he lacked: strength. He was simply weak, and there was no getting away with that. This was never much of an issue as we grew up, because it was assumed that his strength would improve.
It didn't.
Despite the shame that it brought to the family (we were a third-class family, hardly worth notice anyway), that too could have been overlooked. It was done all the time, because of the commonly held belief that saiyans could always get stronger. We who were dubbed "third class" often escaped notice for things that the first rank saiyans would be called on the carpet and blasted for.
My father went on like this. He trained the both of us, until one day shortly after our seventeenth birthday, a messenger turned up at our door. He had orders in hand commanding Charmont to report for duty. He was to work for Frieza.
Everyone grumbled about this, true, but the fact was-it was better than what we had to put up with if we were strictly planet-bound. There was more camaraderie, more brotherhood, if you were on some sort of a team. You had more friends, you had more trips to bars, you just had more.
Naturally, I was jealous. So he, the weakling, would get to go on to bigger and better things while I remained behind. The weakling would get the reward and the spoil of a life spent doing what every saiyan hungered for. And he would ruin it. This weakling who could not even beat his own sister, ever, would utterly destroy himself at some point. I spent a night of ill rest fuming about that fact, and even when I did get to sleep my dreams tailored to it. I never expected what I saw when I woke up.
My father was standing over my brother's bloody corpse.
Before I could even ask what was going on he told me to shut up. He started talking almost too fast for me to understand, explaining that he had done this for my good. I was the superior warrior, I was the one he had spent more time on, I was the treasured one. A lot of different words meaning all the same thing. I finally ventured to ask what my brother's death would do to give me his assigned job.
My father handed me a strange bodysuit and some bandages.
"Put those on. I know you know how to do it," he said, "Get them on and keep them on and no one will ever know that you aren't your brother."
I pondered that only for a moment. Despite my being a girl and my brother being...well, a boy, we'd often been mistaken for one another when we were younger. As I grew older, and as a result, curvier, it stopped happening. My body changed but my face remained the same.
He left the room, I put on the suit (I later learned, a compression sort of getup), banded myself, and there I was. It was that easy to become a man.
My father nodded in approval when I left my room and sent me on.
How could I have known where this would lead? How could I know that this first deception that pleased my father would turn his delight into disgust in just seven short years?
Looking back, I don't think I would have done a thing differently. Ambition got me where I am today, and I could not be more content with my situation in life.