He feels less dead than planned.
Some time later. In general, not on Earth and not where he expected to come to life next time. Not there and not like that. The Master is surprised not even that he comes to himself, but that this is a very familiar feeling that he should not feel.
He didn't regenerate after all. He can still choose on his own whether to die or not. He can still choose whether to change in his new life or not.
The Master had to come to life, as an idea comes to life, as the meaning of being comes to life, as one heartbeat inevitably drags the next one, from the atrium to the ventricle, exactly four beats. In human dark ritual.
Anyway, this feeling — the artron energy spreading through the body — flows familiarly in it. A peaceful feeling, actually. A pleasant semi-fainting state, through which the drums penetrate with difficulty, almost without interfering with the free flow of personality, the folding and unfolding of a thought larger than any body.
He has a salty, salty taste in his mouth. Under the eyelids, the image of the Doctor's wet eyes. Excellent awakening; The Master feels with his back and whole body that he is outside the main universe. So he's in the TARDIS. He has not yet opened his eyes, has not looked around, but already, using mental modeling, assumes that was with him and where he is.
The hearts are engaged in an insanely fast pulse.  The golden light absorbed without a trace.
The Master coughs when he can no longer hold the illusion of immobility, painfully angry and prickly. He turns, fixing his heavy gaze on a familiar face.
— You, — he says with a mixture of anger and delight, and hatred, and disappointment, and a dozen more emotions, not all of which people have given a name to, the animated body is shaken by small convulsions of non-life, — What did you do?