"An excellent ecological question!" Mr. Wonka whispers excitedly. "There's a chance we've found the creature's midafternoon lunch spot and can see for ourselves—if we have the patience to look! Look closely—do you notice any signs of nibbling on the bark of this tree, or the roots, or the leaves? Is the creature interested in any littler bugs nearby?"

There is, now that one mentions it, a strange lack of smaller bugs. There are, however, several nibbled-on mushrooms of a similar appearance to the mushrooms attached to the critter's back. 

"Maybe it eats these. Or, attaches them? To itself? Look, here's a gap where one's been pulled out." Better it than him, mushrooms are GROSS and should NOT go in food especially pizza.

(mushrooms are the tastiest and best actually)

"Hmm! I see. Then perhaps we can tempt it..."

And Mr. Wonka, moving very carefully, twists a single mushroom from the loamy earth and holds it out to the strange bug for inspection.

It chitters thoughtfully, then snatches the mushroom in a blur of dextrous claws and scuttlescuttles up the tree and out of sight to inspect its prize in privacy.

"I bet if I put all the mushrooms around here in a pile it'd come check out the pile eventually." It'd be kind of cool to catch it but 1) he doesn't have any containers and digging a pit trap it couldn't just climb out of sounds tedious, and 2) he's on an alien planet and can't show it off to Buzz and gloat, so he'd just let it go again immediately anyway.

"It just might!" And then he'd be able to observe the creature more closely— how he adores beautifully made things, and nature frequently offers such such tip-top examples. "Borrow my pocketknife, if you'd like."

The pocketknife's handle is elegant purple nacre, emblazoned with WW.

"Meanwhile, I had better poke around to see what other dangers and delights this forest has to offer. I shan't go far."

The species of mushroom under the tree is not a species he's quite confident he can identify, and what with mushrooms being such tempestuous little vegetables, it is best not to treat with them if one has other options. On the other hand, he hopes to find some edible plants he can positively identify, in case they get peckish on their outing. And running water, in case they need to set up a double-boiler or what-have-you. And perhaps a broader picture of the local terrain and wildlife— he does not want to get caught unawares by another slavering whangdoodle. Not after what happened last time.

There are a few fruit-bearing trees around here, with the most unambiguously edible being nearly indistinguishable from an apple tree. There's the sound of a creek out of sight and below them, off that way. 

Oh sweet, a knife! Kevin sets about assembling a mushroom-pile.

Unless he's much mistaken, he has found some sort of apple tree! The fruit looks small, tender, and rosy-pale. And if the fragrance of fallen fruit is anything to go by, rather flavorful. He picks one off the branch, weighs it in hand, inspects the coloring, inhales its scent, and takes a cautious bite.

Ooh, good crunch. And what a unique flavor. Almost like a dry sherry—human cultivar? Light sweetness—but enough to use as a sugar source in a pinch. Malic acid—sour candies, fruit pies though perhaps the texture is too tender to hold up. Bark, leaves, roots, flowers, teas—pollinators? Compotes, jams, herbs, vinegar. Punch up the floral notes, honey(?), maple, roses, orchids—vanilla(?). Cider, mulling, cinnamon, cardamon, nuts. Pâte de fruit, ropes, chewing gum, fizzing sodas, cereals, tarts, slicing, grating, reducing, frying, browning, pickling, freezing, syrups, glazing, hmm. Take it another direction—frothing, charring, spritzing, antifreeze, piquancy, could you wed it to chocolate, coffee, tannins, bitters. Shipping overseas, harvesting, humidity, soil acidity, grafting, yield per acre, greenhouse eight. Hmm hmm hmm.

The Paras notices Kevin's antics, scuttles back down the tree, and attempts to mug him for the mushroom pile with intimidating claw-snaps.

Kevin points the knife at it, not because he wants to stab the little (unreasonably large) guy so much as to prevent it from getting any ideas about jumping onto his face.

The unreasonably large little guy . . . bounces up and down in obvious excitement like a dog expecting a game of fetch, and grabs at the knife.

"Hey!" That's his Wonka's knife! He jerks it away and then waves it at the bug in a go-away sort of fashion.

Wheeeee, knife fight! Enthusiastic flynning ensues.

Kevin doesn't have any experience with the activity "knife fights with giant bugs" and definitely wasn't expecting it to be this much fun. Stab stab stab, aiming to miss because he doesn't want to actually skewer it.

It's fast enough that some of his misses accidentally connect, but it also has a smooth and sturdy carapace; his hits glance off with barely a scratch left for evidence.

Well in that case, stab stabbity stab! He overextends, gets pinched on the wrist hard enough to bruise, and switches hands.

"Para par!" says the bug, and it so obviously means "Ha, I got you good there didn't I!" But also its grabs are slowing down as it starts to get tired.

Mr. Wonka is having Apple Thoughts right now—the nearby knife fight between a colossal insect and a small child has entirely escaped his attention.

He has swept off his elegant top hat to use as a makeshift picnic basket, and while gleefully filling it with fruit, has begun to form strong opinions about how to judge which of these specimens are likely to be best. There is something so splendid about discovering an unknown apple varietal— a piece of vernacular history, a hidden jewel in the ecological web. If these are as non-toxic as he expects, their unique flavor could be the foundation for countless new experiments.

Kevin notices the bug getting tired and then notices he's getting tired himself. He gets a couple more scratches in, takes another himself and switches back to his good right hand, lets the tempo of the sparring slow a bit and then a bit more.

Neither of them is really in control of things at this point; they're both being purely reactive, carried along by momentum and each other's enthusiasm, like a pair of dancers who can't imagine stopping mid-song.

Stab, stab, dodge, stab, he's been on his knees this whole time and putting his entire body into it and he's definitely going to be feeling it tomorrow.  . . . stab.

And eventually the bug backs up a few steps and flops to the ground, exhausted. "Parasssss."