Y'know how they always say that a dog is a man's best friend? Well, it just so happens that time machines—like dogs—are a time traveller's best friend.
My name is Sarah-Jane Finch and I'm a time traveller. Now, now, before you decide to send me to some crazy center, hear me out.
It all began when my locket watch—one of those pretty vintage ones—broke. When I say broke, I don't mean it was malfunctioning, but that it began beeping uncontrollably. I promised myself I would ask my father to take a look at it, but being the forgetful person I am, I forgot. Great job, past me.
It quite honestly just got weirder from there. The next day, some big men in suits came to our doorstep, demanding I give them my locket watch. I am quite proud to say that I shut the door right in their faces. Because stranger danger.
That's when I noticed a boy standing at the staircase.
He had a weirdly smooth-looking tan skin, paired with metallic grey eyes and hair. Oh, and my locket watch wrapped firmly around his neck. Please notice the emphasis—I really dislike it when people touch my stuff.
Being the completely normal boy he was, he simply stated, "I am TM 2.0. I am at your command."
And that, my friends, is how I met my best friend.
~...~...~...~

"Tom," I grumble, "I want to sleep."
"First off, my name is TM. Secondly, no."
"You're a horrible Android. Siri would let me sleep."
He stiffens and I smirk. Tom hates being compared to what he likes to call 'brainless artificial assistants'. He scoffs, annoyance clear in his eyes.
"Well, last time I checked, I wasn't Siri. So get up."
"Fine, mom."
"I pity your mother."
Grumbling, I stretch. I am not a morning person.
I scowl. "What do you mean you pity my mother? For your information, I am plenty awesome."
"For your information, I don't care. Wake up, Sarah-Jane!"
Tom wasn't always so sassy. In fact, he used to be quiet and polite. That is, until I accidentally bonked him on the head with a baseball bat. My bad!
I trail behind him as he walks out of the garage, rubbing the sleep out of my poor eyes. Yeah, you got it right. We live in a garage. It's one of the consequences of being chased by the Time Police, I guess.
I sigh as I look around. This century is so primitive. I mean, airplanes? Seriously?
The sounds of guns being shot creep up behind me. Tom looks behind me, horrified.
Uh-oh. I'd say it's safe to assume that the Time Police have found us.
"Run!"