Still in the ship

Imagining the dour possibilities of being conscious on an uninhabited--and likely uninhabitable--planet, not to mention the only sensation you feel other than disappointment being throbbing pain, you aren't too keen on trying to get up and go anywhere. But then you remember the only thing more disappointing than dying alone on a barren planet: dying alone on a barren planet BORED.

You do your best to rise, getting into a sitting position. The blood rushes to your head, and with it, yet another increase in pain. You remember hearing from one of the science officers that pain releases endorphins, being natural pain killers, and that the whole affair of pain could be used as a kind of natural ****.

It must be the shittiest natural **** known to sentient beings.

Something catches your eye: the readout on the computer console is still just barely functioning. You need to move closer to be sure you see what you think it is you're seeing on the cracked screen...

For the first time, you feel like swooning for a reason other than the pain. This can't be right...it says that his planet is...habitable!

In shock, your mouth agape, you can't help but wonder if it isn't just the thing malfunctioning, after all, it is at least halfway broken, maybe the crash knocked a few screws loose in such a way that it plays one last cruel trick on your dwindling hopes...

But what if...

Just what if. Only a handful of habitable planets have been discovered in the galaxy thus far, and the only life to inhabit them has been confined to the "sea monkeys" variety of lifeforms, microscopic beings that barely qualify as lifeforms, dog paddling around in fetid cesspits.

If the computer isn't malfunctioning, then hat's really out there? Then it dawns on you: the artificial oxygen replicator has been clearly trashed during the less than ceremonious entry...you've been breathing actual oxygen or its equivalent this entire time...from the planet itself!

This could be big...so big the pain starts to recede beneath the pressure of excitement. What if there are complex lifeforms here? What if, if nothing else, you've discovered a worthwhile investment, one you can sell off to some rich terraformer who'll create the next big resort planet, with your generous partnership, of course?

You have to explore the planet, you just have to. Maybe there's even a way to repair the ship somehow? Doing your best to knock of the last remaining dregs of pain and nausea from your frame, you look around the small, scattered contents of the ship to find the following:

--A ray gun you packed because...why the hell not, but it looks like it may only be capable of delivering one blast before it breaks, completely.

--A tank of oxygen that seems intact.

--And some chips.

Not the most...optimum of sundries, but better than nothing.

You collect what you can and then proceed to the door.

Its not only locked, but the locking mechanism, being tied to the console, is broken. The door is completely stuck. You try to pry it open with your hands, but you quickly realize that this thing was designed to stay locked in the vaccum of space, and you might as well try to crush a boulder with your bare hands.

Somewhat panicked and more than a tad disappointed, you look around for another way out.

There. It looks like there's a hole in the roof of your ship. The metal on top has been either torn or melted away within a space of about a foot and a half. If you could find something to stand on, you may be able to peel it back further and exit through the roof[.